


The Myriad Misadventures of a Midgardian Queen-To-Be

by DoeEyedDarling



Series: The Choosing [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Selection Fusion, Angst, Engagement, F/M, Fluff, Loki (Marvel) Does What He Wants, Reader Objects to Loki Doing What He Wants, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Romance, Strap in kids! We're in for the long haul now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:56:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 29,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24193195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoeEyedDarling/pseuds/DoeEyedDarling
Summary: The Choosing was just the beginning. After a year-long whirlwind of interviews, wedding plans, and attempts to get your family to warm up to your (gulp!) fiancé, you’re ready to be married, once and for all.But you aren’t the only one who’s been busy. There are, after all, those who have remained skeptical of Loki’s true intentions for Midgard, even after his confession.And they’re not going to give up their cause without a fight.SEQUEL to "The Myriad Misadventures of Midgardian Queen-In-Training"
Relationships: Loki/OFC, Loki/Reader, Loki/you
Series: The Choosing [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1746094
Comments: 343
Kudos: 258





	1. Chapter 1

You would think that, after spending the better part of the last three years living in a quasi-Bachelor-esque reality show, you’d be used to cameras by now. Right?

“Two minutes to rolling!”

Far from it. Instead, you’re practically squirming in your seat, your gaze drifting away from Ricky Morgenstern’s face and towards the blinking red light to your left—and, even worse, the live studio audience behind it. 

“You’ve nothing to worry about, you know.” A hand closes over your own on the arm of your chair. “They adore you.”

You glance up to your right, and immediately calm a bit at the sight of those sharp, clever eyes. “Easy for you to say.”

Loki squeezes your hand gently, dimples appearing on either side of his mouth. It really _is_ easy for him to say, because at the very least you know they adore _him_. How could they not? Even dressed as simply as he is, in a fitted green tee and black jeans (a look more casual than even you’re used to), he’s not just endearing, he’s stunning—all cheekbones and cropped curls and open-mouth grins. 

You’re back in modern clothing too, though you’re surprised to see more than a few audience members wearing outfits that more closely resemble any number of your “day dresses” from your competition days. Nothing so intricate as Meg’s embroidery work, but still. It’s strange, wearing pants again. Not necessarily a bad change, but something to get used to. (You’re still wearing your hair up, though, and a delicate circlet on top, almost too thin to be caught by the cameras. Some old habits die harder than others.)

Ashley Marino smiles at you kindly as she takes her seat. “You ready?”

Your stomach drops. You'd known this was coming, but now that you actually have to directly face the judgement of the crowd—a crowd that, for once, is face-to-face, not random names on the other end of a screen—you'd rather be anywhere but here.

Still, a queen—or whatever kind of public figure you are now—must do many unpleasant things for the good of their people. And so you nod. 

_As ready as I’ll ever be._

“And we’re live in three, two…” The cameraman gives a signal, and Ashley launches in.

“Welcome to _Good Evening, America._ I’m Ashley Marino, this is Ricky Morgenstern, and today we have perhaps our most highly anticipated guests in the history of the show.” You fix your best cheery-but-not-too-bright smile to your face and keep your eyes fixed on Ashley and Richard as the camera pans over. “I hope you’ll all join us in welcoming his formerly royal highness Loki and his lovely fiancée (Y/N)!”

The round of applause that rises is certainly enthusiastic enough. To be honest, it takes you by surprise. It’s been barely a week since the proposal, and your interactions with the outside world have been limited—you haven’t even seen your family yet. This is your first big television interview since (and, based on the schedule your newly-hired publicist sent over this morning, the first of many). 

When the cheers die down, you dial up the smile a few notches, bringing your focus back to Ashley and Richard. “Thank you for having us!” You squeeze Loki’s hand, and he nods.

“Yes, we are both most grateful to be here.”

“The pleasure is ours.”

"Now, (Y/N),” Richard begins. “If I may, you have stunned the entire planet with your rapid development these past two weeks, absolutely taken our breath away."

You laugh in a way that you hope comes across as more witty than nervous. "Development? I'm not a character in a book. I haven't changed so drastically, not really. I've just become more relevant to the, um, plot."

He chuckles. "Yes, well, real as you are, many have been calling your love story a fairytale. My daughter went nuts when I told her I'd be interviewing you—she's six," he explains. "She always calls you 'the princess.'"

"Wow. That's really sweet." You raise a hand to your hair, trying not to disturb the intricate braids as, one by one, you pull out the hairpins and remove the circlet. "Hold on a sec..."

Well, you try to remove it. But either it got caught in your hair or you missed a pin, because it doesn't quite come off.

_Ack, next time I - ow - wear one with so many damn rhinestones, I'll have to make sure I - ah - wear my hair down - ouch!_

After a few seconds of wrestling with your hair—several times you have to bat away Loki's hands—you hand your headpiece to a bemused-looking Richard Morgenstern. "Here. For your daughter."

You feel a slight pressure on your head, and can't help but smile to see, out of the corner of your eye, Loki trying to smooth down your hair where it must have come loose from your battle with the circlet. You lean up to peck his cheek, an action that receives a collective _"awww"_ from the audience.

"No need to be embarrassed!" laughs Ashley Marino as you blush. “It’s wonderful, seeing that the chemistry we all fell in love with on screen wasn’t just the result of a good edit!”

You laugh at that, and you hear more clapping. Scanning the audience, you realize that Loki was right: this is a room full of people who were—are—rooting for you. Rooting for you not in spite of your awkward moments, but because of them. And with that, it’s much easier to calm your racing heart and let the conversation flow.

That is, until you reach the part you’d been dreading:

"Now, we're going to be taking the first set of questions from our audience."

And just like that, your pulse spikes once more.

"Anyone?” Ashley scans the mob for raised hands, pointing at random. "Yes?"

A thin woman stands up, with intelligent eyes and a sleek, inky black bob. "Hi! I just have to say, I was a huge fan of the show.” You smile politely, not at all expecting for her to hit you with this: “How has your relationship been affected by the age difference?”

Even as you tense up, you feel a fair amount of self-assuredness—this, at least, is a question you can easily answer. “As you all know, I’m just about twenty, while Loki is...it’s one thousand and fifty I believe?” You look to him for confirmation, and he nots, eliciting a quiet rush of disapproving murmurs from the audience. You raise a hand, silencing them. “I do understand the objections. However, I would also take into consideration that, on Asgard, the average life expectancy is around five thousand years, give or take a century or so. Put in terms of total life expectancy, the two of us aren’t actually very far apart at all.” 

There is scattered applause—enough to let you know you said the right thing, although you don’t feel ready to relax just yet. If that’s the _first_ question, who knows what’s yet to come?

Another viewer rises. “When are you getting married?” Before either or Loki can so much as open your mouths, she presses on, “Are you planning on having children?”

You feel your jaw drop at that last bit. “Well, I...we…”

The truth was, you haven’t yet discussed it. You know that Loki didn’t expect you to have children—he had told you as much a few months ago, before the proposal, back when you were still convinced that he had resigned himself to a marriage of convenience. But has that changed, now that your relationship has gone from platonic to decidedly less-than-platonic? 

The truth is, you don’t know if you ever want kids. Certainly not now, at nineteen. You know Loki wouldn’t particularly care if you decided you wanted to be childless forever—considering he already gave up the monarchy _and_ his secret mind control secret in order to win you over, you doubt that children would be a dealbreaker. 

That being said, it’s not exactly a conversation you want to have in front of a live studio audience.

Loki comes to your rescue. “In spite of our proportionally similar ages, we are cognizant of (Y/N)’s relative youth, when compared to the average age of marriage for most Midgardians today. Due to this, we have had some discussions of perhaps postponing the wedding a few years.”

_Wait, what?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings,
> 
> We're really out here! We're really out here doing a sequel. I just today finished the plot line and oh my, I am excited (and terrified!) to dive in! (Title might change, but for now this seemed easy and accurate lol). I have missed this world and these characters so much, and ngl I could *really* use some escapism from everything 
> 
> As always, please let me know your thoughts and predictions and reactions and requests in the comments below! I hope you are all healthy (physically and mentally) and safe from covid, and I am sending many many Loki hugs to everyone who is struggling right now. I love you all, and I will see you sometime in the next week with the next chapter (which is already written) (hooray for that).
> 
> xoxo,  
> DoeEyedDarling


	2. Chapter 2

The rest of the interview passes without incident. It’s not until you’re back in the palace, in your pajamas, that you decide to bring up what you’ve resisted asking for several hours.

“So.” You pull out the remaining hairpins, stacking them in a loose pile on the nightstand next to you. “A few years, huh?”

“I thought it seemed reasonable.” He sides on the edge of the bed opposite you. “You didn’t really think you’d be walking down the aisle while you were still in your teens, did you?”

“But...I just…” You bite your tongue, trying to find the right words, finally giving up to look at him in despair. “That’s so long. And so _vague_. Do you mean three years? Four?”

“Would four years really be so terrible? That’s not even half a decade.”

“But it’s close!” You can hear yourself growing hysterical, and you know you shouldn’t be getting this worked up, but your throat is closing up and the tears refuse to leave. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I’m just...it’s been a long day.”

“And?”

Your eyes fly open. “And what?”

He shrugs, but you can see genuine concern in his gaze. “You tell me.”

You stare at him—the lean cut of his silhouette, the soft down of his hair, the way his eyes never seem to leave yours—and try to reassure yourself that you have nothing to worry about. Yes, there are times when you’d like to whack him upside the head with a shovel (no, not literally—although, to be fair, he is a super strong, super genius/idiot alien. The only thing that might get bruised is his ego), but at the end of the day, you’d fly to the moon and back for him.

It’s just that sometimes, you can’t help but think about how temporary it all is. How temporary _you_ are. Yes, his ring is on your finger…

But you’re still human.

You aren’t worried about whether or not you’ll love him in five years or so—you know you will. You’ve never loved someone so _deeply_ . Even when you’re in the middle of an argument, you can feel him in your blood, in your bones, in every fibre of your being. Even when you see people staring at him. Or at you. And a _lot_ of people stare—men, women, plenty of them almost as gorgeous as he is, staring at you reproachfully, and then you don’t know what to do with yourself. 

And now…

“I’m so scared of losing you.”

It’s only a whisper, but he flinches, and you almost regret saying anything at all.

“I’m sor—” you try, but he cuts you off with a finger against your lips. It’s more something you would do to him, which would make you laugh, except he’s looking at you like a kicked puppy dog, and you’re not quite sure how to handle this. 

“Why are you apologizing?”

You bite your lip. “I hurt you.”

“More than I’ve hurt you?” he reaches out to cup your face, running a thumb over your cheek. “You’re crying.”

_Damnit._ You pull back, swiping furiously at your cheeks. “I’m s—I’m fine. I’m fine.”

“Why would you lose me?”

You shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Have I done something—acted wrongly in some way?”

“I don’t—it was a stupid thing to say, okay?”

You feel his hand on your elbow, and, with no small amount of reluctance, you lift your head back up to meet his gaze. “Please?”

“What if you find someone else?” And with that, the rest of it spills out. “What if you only chose me because, out of the eight of us, I was the least wrong for you, and what if there’s someone else out there that you’re supposed to be with? Because I want you to be happy, but what if you can’t be really happy because you’re with me?”

“Someone else—”

“There are a lot of people out there, and I’m not...they’re more…”

“More right?” he supplies. You nod, miserable, and he lets out a quiet laugh. “That would be impossible.”

The silence settles down gently, like newfallen snow, before you break it. “In the old myths, you have—had—you have a wife.”

If he’s taken aback by the sudden change of topic, he doesn’t show it. “You’re referring to Sigyn.”

“Yes.” For some reason, you’re surprised that this—out of all the stories you’ve read—turned out to be true. 

“How much do you know about her?”

You pause, thinking. “Goddess of fidelity.”

“Yes. Loyalty. The purest embodiment of loyalty.” He turns your hand over, tracing the creases of your palm, before looking back up. “Sigyn and I were very close in a way that the Nordic people mistakenly took as marriage. We protected each other.”

“Took care of each other,” you say, thinking of the way you used to be with your friends back home.

“Yes. We weren’t in love, but we were together.” Something behind his eyes shifts. It’s not hard to tell that his mind is a million miles away. “You know, she would have done anything to save the people she loved.”

“Would have?”

His sudden silence is enough for you to understand that whatever ending this story may have, it isn’t exactly a happy one.

“After leaving Asgard,” he finally starts again, “I never thought I’d meet anyone with her capacity for love. But now…” He stops playing with your fingers, and instead covers your hands with his own. “You say energy can be neither created nor destroyed. I wonder if some of her energy hasn’t found a home in you.”

You shake your head gently, blinking back the fresh tears that have so-so-conveniently decided to show up. “I’m your...your replacement Sigyn?”

He chokes out a laugh through his own tears. “No,” he whispers. “You are so much more.”

WIth that, he kisses you, so fiercely you’re no longer certain there’s a world outside this room. His lips are warm, his fingers cold, his hair soft and feathery against your cheek, and _oh,_ how could you have ever doubted for a second that he loves you?

Both of you are short of breath by the time you break apart. 

“Every time I look at you,” he gasps, “I see everything I loved about her, yes.” You try to ignore the pang in your stomach. “But,” he continues, “I also see everything I love about _you_.”

Love.

Present tense.

He loves you.

_He loves me._

And just like that, all thoughts of Sigyn, of your family, of _anyone_ else whatsoever, are banished from your mind.

“You love me?” You ask it wearing the goofiest, most stupid-happy grin of all time.

Your hands are still intertwined, and he raises your left with raised brows, the engagement ring clearly on display. “If that’s still a question, then perhaps I’m not doing my job correctly.”

“I just…” You purse your lips, still thinking about the issue of waiting _a few more years_ to be married. “I wish you’d asked me, about waiting. Before announcing it like that.”

He nods. “I should have.”

“And…” You bite your lip. “To be honest, I don’t understand why it’s necessary. I chose you, Loki. We chose each other. Why wait longer? Why drag it out?”

“I…” And then, miracle of miracle, he actually _blushes._ “I didn’t want you to feel rushed, actually.”

“What?” You stare at him until his cheeks turn an even deeper shade of red, and then you laugh. “You—why would you ever worry about that?”

He looks down, a smile dancing around the corners of his lips even as his tone remains sober. “I know that this remains a complicated situation for you. With your family, and with the other limitations of living in the palace for so long.”

You can’t pretend as though you’ve never considered that last point before. After all, in three years you’d had all of a month outside the confines of the grounds. Perhaps “confines” is the wrong word for such an expansive estate, but still—the acres of land provided the illusion of freedom, not the real thing. 

And, yes. Your family. That’s a whole other can of worms that you’re not entirely sure you have the energy to consider on top of everything else you’ve discussed tonight.

“When I replace this ring,” he continues, raising your left hand so that it’s between you, “with a wedding band, I want you to be certain. I don’t want you to have any doubts that this is the life you want.”

“You know I don’t have any doubts right now, right?”

“Yes. And I swear to you, neither do I. I just…” He trails off, but you understand. The last few months. All the back and forth, the miscommunications, the angst. It’s going to take a while for either of you to adjust to this new normal. 

To adjust to the idea that the person you want definitely wants you in return.

You purse your lips, and scoot closer to him on the bed. “I would like to propose a compromise.”

“Oh?”

You bring your clasped hands to your lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, before looking up at him. The act is enough to wipe some of the worry from his eyes. “One year.” He doesn’t protest or interrupt, merely tilts his head and listens as you continue, “Weddings take time to plan, so I won’t feel like we’re postponing it for nothing. But maybe a year will make you feel more comfortable.” 

He nods. “I’ll know you’ve lived with the idea for a bit.”

“Exactly.” You lean in, pressing your forehead against his. “And you’ll know I’m not going to change my mind.”

“Well argued, Lady (Y/N).” He closes the distance between your lips with a quick peck, then pulls back to press another kiss to your nose. “A year it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi my loves,
> 
> Apparantly Ao3’s email system will be down for a bit starting Friday, so I’m posting this chapter a few days early so that subscribers can get a notification email :) Expect Chapter 3 to be up sometime next Friday!!
> 
> I’m posting this during a movie night with my mom (who said to send her love to you all), so I must run, but as always: stay safe, stay healthy, keep me updated in the comments, and I will see you all in the next chapter <3
> 
> xoxo,  
> DoeEyedDarling


	3. Chapter 3

It all began, as most things seem to in your life, with a letter. 

Actually, “ _ a _ letter” isn’t quite right. “A thousand letters” would be more accurate, or maybe even “infinite letters,” because God forbid you send out any wedding invitations before considering every possible combination of colors, fonts, and paper thicknesses known to man. 

It began with the letters, then moves to the envelopes, and of course the guest list. Then the decorations; curtains and tablecloths and place settings and favors. You’ve been through a lot in the past few years. A new life. A new identity. Multiple attempts on your life, both somehow averted with little more than a fish fork. And yet at times you wondered, every time you saw yet  _ another _ stack of napkin options waiting for you to muse over before breakfast, if  _ this _ (that is, wedding planning) wasn’t your biggest challenge yet.

But in spite of all that, the year has flown by. A lot has changed since that conversation you had after the interview, all those months ago.

“Jesus Christ, I’d forgotten how  _ suffocating _ these things are.”

At least you have the comfort of knowing that Rosa has stayed the same.

“Hold still.” You can’t see them from your spot behind the changing screen, but you’re guessing Irina is doing the same thing to Rosa that Meg is doing to you—tightening the laces on her bridesmaid dress.

“And you couldn’t have picked any other color?”

Her tone is clearly teasing. “I thought you would have liked this,” you call back playfully. “Why, would you have preferred something green?”

That stirs up a series of groans from all three girls. 

“Never again,” Irina declares. “I’m not wearing anything in green for the next decade, at least.”

“You’re telling me,” Rosa scoffs. “Absolutely terrible for my complexion. I don’t know how your  _ fiance _ pulls it off.”

Even after a year of being engaged, the word still brings a warmth to your cheeks. “Shut up, Rosa.” 

(But even as you say the words, you’re grinning.)

You round the corner of the screen with Meg by your side, coming into view of the two others. The room is quiet enough to hear a pin drop. 

“(Y/N).” Irina presses a hand to her mouth, and you can see from this distance that even Rosa’s eyes are watering up a bit. 

“Well?” You shuffle a bit, smoothing your hands along the smooth ivory skirts. “What do you think?”

As they rush forward to embrace you, you try to lean into the joy of the moment, rather than the sense that something is missing. You’d always just assumed that, when you were fitted for your wedding dress, your mom would be there. Carlie, too.

But you’d rather not think about that right now.

“And I have one last surprise!”

“What?” You turn to watch as she runs off in the direction of the closet. “Meg, what surprise?”

She comes back beaming, with her hands held behind her back. “Close your eyes.”

You oblige, and feel a light weight atop your head. When at last your allowed to open them and look in the mirror, you see a veil, draping down from a silver tiara. “Oh my gosh, Meg.” 

Your maid-of-honor blushes. “You hardly let me help with any of the planning, so this felt like the least I could do.”

“This needlework, Meg.” Irina shakes her head, running a thumb reverently along one edge of the veil. Upon closer inspection, you can see the intricacy of the design—small seed pearls sewn together in gorgeous interweaving patterns. “It’s unreal.”

“You want to talk about unreal? Four years ago none of us had so much as met each other, and now…” Rosa grabs your hand. “Well. Less than twenty-four hours to go.”

“Oh, shush,” you say dismissively, before shooting her a look. “It’s not like I’m the first one to be married since we left.”

Rosa wasn’t the first to be married since the end of the competition, either—that honor went to Juliette, you’re fairly certain. But a few months ago she did in fact replace the ring she wore around her neck with one on her finger, and as far as you can tell, her ex-fiance is nothing more than a distant memory.

It’s good, seeing her like this. The other ladies will be attending the wedding, but none of them know you quite as well as Rosa and Irina—and even the two of them don’t know you as well as Meg. The three of them have been a godsend over the past year, as you’ve tried to make sense of your new life.

And what a new life it has been.

For starters, you needed to find a way to repurpose the palace. There were so many rooms, so many acres of land, that it seemed wasteful to leave them all empty. So, after some months of work, you welcomed the first incoming class of Lady Amara’s new academy. A few dozen young men and women, allowed to live on the grounds, rent and tuition free, and study the various arts of diplomacy, etiquette—all the things you spent the last three years learning, in addition to more traditional courses like history and math and whatnot. Most of the pupils are without family—older foster children, orphans, kids with nowhere else to go.

You must admit, it made you feel good to set this up. It’s given Lady Amara something to do, which has helped to mostly keep her off your back with regards to wedding planning. And beyond the initial hiring of teachers, there wasn’t very much for you to do—all those rooms were just waiting, empty.

Although you do generally maintain a bit of distance between you and the students, keeping your rooms in a separate wing of the palace. It feels weird to see them—some of them eighteen, nineteen—and remember how you are simultaneously so close to them in age, and yet worlds and worlds apart in life experience. 

You’ve been ruminating on this more and more, recently. How one stroke of chance turned your entire life on its head. The odds of you being Chosen were at least a billion to one; the odds of you being the last one standing were even slimmer. And yet that one moment—

_ “(FN) (LN), sixteen, of the United States of America!” _

That moment changed  _ everything _ . 

You missed out on your last few years of adolescence. No, you didn’t just miss out on them: they were  _ taken _ from you. Up until the tail end of the competition, you had no say in the matter. 

And regardless of how happy you are now, those years as a normal teenager are something you’ll never get back.

If your name had never been called, who knows where you would be right now?

“(Y/N)?” Rosa squeezes your hand. “Hello? Anyone home?”

You’re shaken from your train of thought. “Sorry, I just...would you help me change back into my normal clothes? I just remembered, I need to talk to Loki about something.”

“Isn’t that bad luck?”

Meg chuckles as she unlaces the back. “I don’t believe there are any superstitions about the bride seeing the groom the day  _ before _ the wedding.” The dress pools cloud-like at your feet, and as you step out of it, she nudges your arm. “You aren’t getting cold feet, are you?”

You laugh. “No, that’s not it, I just…” Your cheeks warm as you dress hastily. This is a conversation you need to have with Loki before you go spilling secrets to anyone else. “I’ll see you at dinner, okay?”

And before they can ask any further questions you take off out of the room and down the hall, heart pounding all the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello loves,
> 
> Short author's note bc i'm STARVING and am about to run and eat dinner, but i love you all! i'll respond to comments later tonight :) stay safe, stay healthy, lmk what you think, and i'll see you in the next chapter.
> 
> xoxo,  
> DoeEyedDarling


	4. Chapter 4

When you reach Loki’s private room, the door is already a bit ajar, allowing you to see him standing by his desk. You knock all the same, semi-playfully.

“Can we talk?” 

His attention remains fixed on the work before him. “I’m busy. Don’t you have wedding plans to review?”

You take a step back, stung. “I just finished my last fitting, actually.” Your husband-to-be has been known to be a bit abrasive - harsh, even, when the mood strikes - but not in recent years, and never to you. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing you should worry about.”

It would be a lie to say Loki has never brushed you off like this before. The very nature of the Choosing didn’t exactly provide the two of you with a strong framework for easy communication, and while it’s something the two of you have worked on, there is still much work to be done. 

It’s just a bit disheartening to have to deal with the day before your wedding.

“In less than twenty four hours, I will be your wife. Anything that worries you is of concern to me; it’s in my job description.” He continues to ignore you, but you approach him with as much confidence and queenliness as you can muster. “Hey.”

He sighs. “(Y/N)...”

You wrap your arms around his waist. “I’m here for you,” you whisper between his shoulder blades.

He remains quiet for a long, long moment. “Rebels.”

“What?”

“Rebel forces. You remember New York?”

It’s a rhetorical question, but you answer all the same. “Of course.” You rub his shoulder, making small, steady circles with the palm of your hand. “You’ve changed since then, Loki. That wasn’t really you to begin with. And even if it was, you ceded power. You don’t— _we_ don’t run anything. What do they think they’re rebelling against? ”

“My very presence here.” You stiffen. “They want to send me back.”

“Back?” Even as you ask, you know what he means. “To Asgard.”

“Yes.”

“They can’t do that. There’s no way back.” He doesn’t respond. “There’s no way back, right?”

“There are...a few secret passages, but I doubt they know them.”

“Okay. Is that all?” You can feel his hesitation. “Loki?”

“There is an item they could use. An energy source. It’s in the palace, under lockdown, heavily guarded,” he assures you. “I merely want to ensure your safety. Especially tomorrow, what with your family here, and the other guests, and Lady Amara’s student body.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all. I’m just putting extra security measures in place. There is absolutely no cause for concern.”

You’re still slightly skeptical. You’ve become quite good at reading him, but there are still times when you wonder what he’s thinking. 

When you wonder if he trusts you as much as he says. 

“And if there is, you’ll tell me?”

“Of course. I was entirely serious, though, when I said I was occupied. Whatever you wanted to discuss…”

“It can wait til later.” It technically can, though you’re dying to spill. You don’t want to rush the news. You want to be able to tell him with time to spare, leaning on his chest before bed, something to open a conversation, not a passing remark while his mind is clearly elsewhere.

To be honest, you’re somewhat relieved. You need a little more time to gather the courage to tell him.

“I’ll see you around.” You plant a quick kiss on his cheek before turning around. _I could check the guest bedrooms_ . You’ve already spent hours picking the perfect rooms for your family and friends, decorating Carlie’s room just so. _How about the guest list?_ But the invitations had already gone out, several months ago. _I should probably finish the dress alterations…_ The dress was lovely, but there were one or two adjustments you had wanted to make, and after all of the work Meg had insisted on putting into your wardrobe for the honeymoon, you couldn’t bring yourself to ask her to do anything more.

Entering your own room puts you in a slightly better mood—after the competition you were able to give the room a more thorough renovation, and the afternoon light streaming through the crimson drapes gives the room a warm glow. You pull back the curtains and push the window open, closing your eyes and relishing the feel of the crisp winter air on your cheeks.

You hear the _bang-click_ of the window shutting and latching, and the breeze disappears, but you still feel a chill on your neck. Your eyes fly open.

“Now, darling, I’m sure the last thing you want is to get sick the day before the wedding.” 

Long, cold fingers graze your skin, brushing your hair to the side so that he can plant a kiss on your shoulder. You shiver, tilting your head. “I thought no men were allowed in the princess's chambers without her express permission?"”

“I don't remember you ever being such a stickler for the rules." You turn to face him at that. He kisses you again, this time on the lips, and you feel the chill run through you like a bolt of lightning. "I also shouldn’t have dismissed you like that.” His hands skim the length of your arms, finally finding purchase on your waist. "What is it you wanted to discuss?”

“Well...” _Oh God oh God how do I -_

“Pardon me, (Y/N)?” 

You jump, relaxing when you see the figure in the doorway. “Meg.”

“Your family has arrived.”

Great. As if you didn’t have enough on your mind already. Still, you can’t avoid this moment forever.

“Very well.” You feel a squeeze at your hand, and you look up to see a clear question in Loki’s eyes. You shake your head, biting your lip. “I should probably…”

“Greet them alone. I understand.” He can’t completely hide the pain in his voice, but there’s nothing to be done. You both know his presence would do little to ease the tension. “Go.”

“Thank you.” You loop your hand through Meg’s arm as you leave the room, and she gives you a knowing nod. After all, Meg may not have been there the last time you saw your family, but she knows the story of what happened.

She knows as well as you do that you’re about to head into battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings,
> 
> 2020 is,,,not pulling any punches. As always, I hope everyone is safe and healthy. For my US readers—if you're protesting, I am proud of you and PLEASE stay safe (have people that know to check in on you if they haven't heard from you in a while, wear masks, carry water with you). 
> 
> I know most people have probably seen these links, but just in case you haven't, https://blacklivesmatter.carrd.co/ has TONS of great information about places to donate and petitions to sign, and https://linktr.ee/blackmentalhealth is a great list of mental health resources (I do see new updated links and info circulating around Instagram every day, so be sure to keep an eye on social media, but these are a good starting point).
> 
> Love you all. Be kind (to yourselves and to others), be healthy, be safe.
> 
> xoxo,  
> DoeEyedDarling


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, what exactly happened the last time you saw your family?

_THREE MONTHS AGO_

Earlier in the year, you’d taken the day off from wedding plans and academy logistics to return to the house you’d once called home. It was a weekend, so you knew Carlie and Erik would likely be home. It was not the first time you’d visited your family—you did you best to drop by a few times a month, bringing little gifts and enduring painful small talk in hopes of winning them over, in hopes of winning them back. It wasn’t even the first time you’d shown up unannounced.

It was, however, the first time you hadn’t come alone.

The doorbell had barely finished ringing when the door itself swung open.

“Hey, you’re early! You can help with—” Erik fell quiet as he took in the sight of the green-eyed, formerly-royal demigod standing beside you.

You’d come a long way since the worst of your teenage social anxiety, from the days when you’d rush to fill any uncomfortable silence with rapid-fire babble. But the urge crept up on you now, as you watched your brother look your fiancé up and down, giving him a once-over with steely eyes and a grim mouth.

Loki, for his part, did his best to maintain a pleasantly calm demeanor. He shifted the weight of the crockpot (which you’d made him hold—anything that softened his image, like a home-cooked dish, couldn’t hurt, right?) to one arm, offering his other hand. “You must be Erik.”

And, to your surprise, Erik accepted the handshake. It seemed, though, that he was doing it out of shock and habit, rather than politeness or genuine acceptance. Still shaking Loki’s hand, he turned to look at you. “(Y/N).”

You matched his tone—half mocking, half plea. “Erik.”

“You can’t be serious.” He pulled his hand back, the slow dazedness of the motion at direct odds with his voice. “You can’t.”

“Can’t what? Come inside?” 

“Mom and Dad...I don’t even know what they’ll think.”

“Only one way to find out.” 

Loki cleared his throat.“I assure you, I don’t wish to cause any trouble. If—”

“No.” You shook your head, looping one arm around his. “You’re staying.” You returned your attention to Erik, trying to lend as much curtness to your voice as you could without sounding overly formal. “The wedding’s in three months. If you and Mom and Dad haven’t come to terms with it by now, then—”

"Haven’t come to terms with what?” 

And who should appear in the doorway behind Erik, but your mother. 

Of course.

Before she could say anything, you blurted out, “We come in together or not at all.”

A moment passed, so thick with tension that it felt like an almost physical pressure on your chest. Your mom looked at you, then at Loki, then you again (quickly. So, so quickly, as though she was afraid looking at him for too long might scar her retinas). You met her gaze. Held his arm. Stood your ground.

And, finally, she nodded.

“Fine. He can come in.” Before you could cross the threshold, though, she held up a hand. “Your father’s in the backyard, if you want to say hello. But maybe you should greet him alone, first. Before.”

Your immediate reaction was to look at Loki. You had warned him that the first meeting with your family would be difficult; you weren’t exactly keen on leaving him to face Mom _and_ Erik _and_ Carlie all on his own. Still, he gave you a hopeful nod. “All the better for the rest of your family and I to become acquainted, no?” 

The smile quickly dropped from his face when he looked back up at your mom, who was just as stoic as she had been a few moments before. You could almost read her mind—she undoubtedly was judging the exchange between you and Loki as you asking for permission to go see your father, rather than you showing concern at the idea of abandoning your fiancé to semi-hostile relatives. 

Too late to retroactively explain it now.

But hey, you trusted Loki. If he couldn’t quite _charm_ Mom in the few minutes (you hoped) you’d be talking with Dad, at least he could survive until you returned.

(You did regret missing his first interaction with Carlie, though. That seemed like something you would have enjoyed).

* * *

“Well, look who it is!” Your dad’s genuine enthusiasm was a welcome change from the tension of the front porch, and you found yourself grinning. “There’s my girl.”

You leaned over to hug him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Good to see you too, Dad.” 

“Hope you didn’t bring too many presents this time. You’re going to spoil Carlie, you know.”

“Well, actually,” you said, making a tentative attempt at (what you felt like) was a pretty lame segue, “I didn’t bring any presents, but I did bring a pretty big surprise.”

“Oh?”

“I, um. Well.” You took a deep breath. “I brought Loki with me.” 

Your dad had a fairly neutral look on his face—and, if anything, this just made you more nervous. An outright frown would at least have given you a somewhat accurate gauge of how he might react.

Finally, he said, “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, sweetheart.”

“Dad.” Your heart sank. “Come inside, please. I think, if you just meet him, and _talk_ to him—”

“I don’t think you understand how much we worry about you.”

“What?” That took you aback. You shook your head. “I do. Of course I do.”

“No, I—maybe worry is the wrong word.” He took a deep breath. “Every day, as soon as I wake up, you’re the first thing we think about. And you’re the last thing we think about before we fall asleep. And it’s not—they aren’t happy thoughts. It’s all fear, and dread, and—”

“Dad.” You stopped him with a hand to his forearm, bending down to catch his gaze. “I know. I really do.”

He pulled you in for a hug. “I love you, Bean.”

“I love you too.” You squeezed him even more tightly than before. For some reason, this, more than anything, made you felt like a little girl again. Like a small child who had been reprimanded for some small act of disobedience. The wetness in your eyes spilled over. “And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.

He pulled back suddenly, a hand on each of your shoulders. “Then come home.”

You brushed the tears from your cheeks and attempted a small smile. “But I am home. Right now, I’m…” He shook his head, forcing you to confront what he _really_ meant. You took a step back, placing yourself just slightly out of reach. “Dad.”

“Carlie and Erik are just about finished setting the table.” Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Mom come down the porch steps, crossing the lawn to you. “Did you ask her?”

 _Just Carlie and Erik?_ “Where’s Loki?”

“I told...him...that I thought it would be best if he went back and waited in the car.” She wrung her hands with such force it almost turned her knuckles white. “So that your father and I wanted to speak to you alone.”

“Speak to? Don’t you mean _ambush_?” In spite of your best efforts to square your jaw, you felt your lower lip begin to tremble. “You tried this last year, Mom. It didn’t work before the engagement, and it won’t work now.”

“Sweetheart. Please.” She sighed, but her words sounded more desperate than tired. “This...this _marriage_...this isn’t really what you want.”

“Oh? Is that right?” You laughed bitterly. “How would you know that?”

“How do you?” The fighting edge had returned to her voice. “You don’t know anything besides him. You don’t know _anything_ else, you never had the chance to.”

You were about to snap back at her until your dad raised a hand in defense. “Your mother and I,” he said, clearly trying to de-escalate the situation, “you know we just want what’s best for you.”

“No,” you spit. “You want what’s best for the sixteen-year-old girl who left this house four years ago.” 

He reacted to the venom in your voice as though it were a physical blow, his eyes widening with a mixture of shock and pain that almost stopped you in your tracks. 

Almost. 

“You need to let her go.” Your tone had taken on a pleading edge that you didn’t even bother trying to cover up. Because that’s what this was—a plea. You were desperate. You thought you’d won this argument months ago. “I need you to let _me_ go.”

For one long, terrible minute, nobody said anything. 

“Fine, then.” 

“What?”

“Go.” She didn’t even blink. “If that’s what you really want, then go.”

“You can’t…” Even then, the denial bubbled up in your throat, thin and sour as bile. You couldn’t stop yourself from speaking. “You don’t really mean that.”

“We can’t stop you from making your own mistakes,” she said. “But I won’t let you drag Carlie down with you.”

You gaped at her. “I don’t want to drag her down, I just want her in my life. I want all of you in my life. I’m your _daughter_.”

“Not any daughter I recognize.”

Your mother’s voice was tense and deadly quiet, so quiet that, for a moment, you thought you’d misheard. But you knew. Deep down, you knew what she’d said.

She looked away, refusing eye contact. You turned to your father in hopes of an appeal. “Dad, you don’t—”

“You heard your mother.” It wasn’t until you saw how he, too, avoided your gaze that you felt the full weight of the rejection. “Go.”

In a perfect world, you would have stayed to talk it out. In a perfect world, you would have come up with the right response, wouldn’t have left it there, wouldn’t have accepted losing the family you’d fought so hard to keep.

In a perfect world, they would have asked you to stay.

And some part of you still believed they would. As you went up the stairs. As you brushed through the house, giving Erik and Carlie little more than a kiss on the cheek. And, of course, as you got into the car next to Loki, locking the door behind you.

You sat in silence for a long, long moment. You could feel him waiting for you to say the first word.

“Let’s go home,” you finally said.

“They just need more time." You squeezed your eyes shut as tightly as you could, as though that would somehow protect you from the pity in his voice. "You should rejoin them, and I’ll return to fetch you after—”

“No.” 

“Don’t let this be one of your regrets, darling.” You felt his fingers brush the corners of your eyes, trying to wipe the fresh tears away. “Family is—”

 _“No._ ” You pulled away from his touch. The fire in your chest blazed deeper, rage and sorrow mixing until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. “They’re not my family."

That sends you into a new silence. “We’ll try again,” he said at last. You didn’t bother contradicting him.

But you didn’t agree, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi darlings,
> 
> :( every time i write a sad family scene in this fic,,,i'm,,,,
> 
> Anyway, if you've been feeling extra drained recently, know you're not alone—the pandemic/political fatigue has been hitting me bigtime this week. Grateful to have the fanfic community as something of an escape.
> 
> As always, stay safe, stay well, let me know what you think in the comment box. I will try to respond to last chapters comments by the end of the weekend. I love you all. 
> 
> xoxo,  
> DoeEyedDarling
> 
> (PS: On a lighter note, I will write a Carlie-meets-Loki chapter at some point, probably as a deleted scene or something)
> 
> (PPS: i will be retconning one line in the last chapter, about Meg being there the last time you saw your family, because i wrote this chapter without remembering that part. so if you look back and its changed, it's not because you're crazy, it's because i actually changed it lol)


	6. Chapter 6

After that, you half expected never to see them again. They had never formally said yes to the wedding invitation, after all. No matter. You threw yourself even more deeply into the planning. Abandoned the room preparations. Rearranged seating charts. You considered asking Meg, or Rosa, or even Albert—your old friend from the dining hall—to walk you down the aisle, before deciding you’d do it on your own.

No family. No pre-Choosing friends. More than ever before, you felt as though you had lived two separate lives, split by your sixteenth birthday, and without any ties to your past life, you were forced to dive headfirst into your new one.

More planning. More color palettes, cake samples, song selections. Loki took on his share of it, of course, but the two of you still somehow rarely crossed paths during the day. When you weren’t wedding planning, you were in meetings with Lady Amara, listening to her nitpick at the curricular programs you had established for her etiquette academy. And you had tried leaving the palace, attempted to take days in various cities, but it was hard to go anywhere without being noticed. You were officially a public figure now, with or without Loki.

You wondered if he understood this feeling. If  _ this _ was how he had felt, when he first came to Earth. Losing his parents, leaving his realm, abandoning everything for a world that would never fit quite right.

But you didn’t quite know how to ask. 

And so you never found out.

* * *

Barely a week ago, you did receive a letter from your family. The RSVP. Several months past the deadline, but all the same—they’d said yes.

Finally, they’d said yes.

So you aren’t surprised at their arrival. You had a week, after all. So their rooms are furnished, the beds made, the wardrobes filled with clothes for them to choose from for the wedding.

But there’s a difference between being unsurprised and being emotionally prepared to greet the people who essentially disowned you less than a year ago.

You don’t wear the full corset-petticoat-gown rigamarole full-time anymore. Even when you  _ do _ wear dresses nowadays, you tend to default to more modern cuts. But for some reason, the looming pressure of the wedding has made you feel even more desperate for some kind of armor, some extra shield of protection—no matter how flimsy—to get you through the day. The past few days, you’ve found yourself returning to your mid-competition manner of dress, accessories and all. After all, you’ve barely been leaving the hallways near your rooms, let alone the palace walls. Who’s going to judge you for wearing a tiara around your own bedroom?

And now, as you approach the grand foyer with Meg at your elbow, you feel somewhat fortified by the clothes you’re wearing. They remind you to stand tall, to speak without stuttering, to keep your shoulders back and your head held high. They make you feel more like the almost-queen you feel you never quite managed to grow into.

The doors open, and there they are. Carlie. Erik. Dad. 

Mom.

For the first time in your memory, Carlie doesn’t run forward to hug you. It shouldn’t sting as much as it does—you barely said two words to her the last time you were home, after all—and yet. 

And yet _. _

They stand there, luggage piled at their feet. Stoic expressions on all of their faces, though the flavors vary from regretful to downright cold. Ten feet away from you. Neither side makes a move to approach for a long, long time.

You clear your throat. “I hope your travels weren’t too difficult.” Voice crisp and cold, hands clasped at your waist. You won’t lose your head, you won’t start to cry.

You  _ won’t _ be the first to apologize. You just won’t.

Mom presses her lips together in a strained line that you think is supposed to be a smile. “They were very pleasant, thank you.” Her eyes flicked to the girl by your side. “This is…”

“Margaret, Ma’am.” She rushes forward to offer a hand; to your relief, your mother accepts it. All of your family does as Meg goes down the line. You find yourself reluctantly walking up behind her, though you still keep a few feet’s distance. “It is so lovely to meet all of you. (Y/N) speaks of you often.”

“She does?” you hear Carlie whisper. You’re tempted to respond to her. Instead, you rush to finish the introduction.

“Meg is my maid-of-honor. We met three years ago, when she was working as a member of the palace’s waitstaff.”

“I see.” 

Another uncomfortable pause.

You’re about to abandon the small talk in favor of having them escorted to their rooms, when Mom clears her throat and speaks up again. “And where is your…” She falters, but eventually continues, “your fiancé?”

That’s the first time she’s referred to him as such. The first time any of your family has, actually.

“Yes,” Dad adds—awkwardly, but not unkindly. “We’d like to, um. Well.”

“We want to meet him,” Carlie chimes in. Erik, though silent, nods his assent. 

“You…” You try to be cautious, but you can’t quite stop the small pinprick of hope that blooms behind your ribs. “I can go see what he’s—”

“Forgive me my tardiness,” you hear a voice behind you, and the warmth in your chest blossoms further. “Welcome, of course. We are both most grateful to have you here.”

He stands next to you, and you can feel his nervous energy in parallel to yours. Mom, Dad, Erik, Carlie—you’re almost too afraid to look at them, to see what they might be thinking, to hear what they’re going to say—

“The pleasure is ours.”

Mom steps forward as she speaks, and follows this up with a small smile. It is small and strained, but still it is there. Loki walks just ahead of you to meet them in the middle, and you barely choke back a laugh when he bows, kissing your mother’s hand. Dad follows, waiting his turn. He shakes hands with Loki while clapping him on the shoulder. 

“Good to meet you, son.”

You make eye contact with Carlie, eyes widening as if to say,  _ Can you believe this? _ And she nods, giving you a grin that’s equal parts knowing and joyful. The mood has shifted so abruptly that you’d be suspicious in other circumstances, but you don’t care. You take a few tentative steps forwards towards her before breaking into a run, and she meets you in a bone-crushing hug that nearly brings tears to your eyes. Over her shoulder, you see Erik go up for a handshake of his own, and….what else is there to say? Your worlds are coming together. 

At long last, the broken pieces of your life are beginning to fit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello darlings,
> 
> hope this update finds you well! let me know what you think/your predictions, and i'll see you next chapter <3
> 
> xoxo,  
> doeeyeddarling


	7. Chapter 7

You lean back from the table with one hand on your stomach, sated and satisfied and _happy_ , with Carlie at your left hand, Loki to your right, and the rest of your family and tiny, tiny bridal party in the seats surrounding.

Carlie squeezes your hand. “That was the  _ best _ dessert I’ve had...like, ever _. _ ” She glances across the table with a bashful smile. “No offense, Mom.”

“None taken.”

There are smaller conversations going on around the table; most notably, a soft laugh from Meg’s direction brings your attention to her interactions with your brother. She touches his arm as she responds to whatever lame joke he just cracked, and you see her smile bring out an uncharacteristic blush in his cheeks.  _ Interesting.  _ Perhaps you’ll have to play wingwoman for a bit at the reception tomorrow...

There’s a collective squeaking of chair legs against the floor as everyone rises to clear the table. You sidle over closer to Loki.

“Well,” he murmurs, the soft smile he wears a sure reflection of your own. “I’d say that went better than expected, no?”

“You’re telling me.” Balancing your silverware and plates in your arms, you turn to look at him, biting your lip. “I know we’re sleeping separately tonight, but do you think I could stop by your room quickly before you turn in for the night?”

“Yes, you wanted to speak to me earlier.” He cocks his head, a sliver of concern peeking through the sunny exterior. “Is everything all right? We can speak now, if you wish.”  
“It can wait until after I show everyone to their rooms. I just...It’s something that—”

That’s as far as you get before someone slips up behind you and wraps a blindfold around your head. Your empty plates and still-full wineglass are lifted from your hands, and you hear on your left hand side a voice say, “Now  _ you’re _ coming with us.”

A very giggly, unintimidating voice. 

“Meg?” You feel her loop an arm through yours. “What—”

“You don’t mind if we borrow your fiancée for a bit, do you, Your Majesty?” Rosa chimes in on your other side. 

“Borrow?”

“Just for the night.”

“We  _ promise _ to bring her back in one piece.”

“As long as I’m not left standing at the altar,” he responds, grinning so widely you can practically hear the dimples, “I see no reason to complain.”

And they drag you out of the dining hall before you can get in another word.

* * *

You wake up with the sun.

The quiet of the early hour is steeped in an overwhelming sense of calmness, making you forget, if only for a moment, the excitement of the day to come. You hear a soft rustle on your left side as Carlie rolls over, burying her face more deeply into the pillow.

To your relief, Rosa and Meg and Irina’s idea of a bachelorette party turned out to be quite tame: more sleepover than night out on the town. You’re sure it’s partly because they know your taste, but also because—as you saw when you reached your chambers and they finally removed the blindfold—your sister and mother were invited last-minute.

Speaking of your mother: you hear the door swing open slowly, and she creeps in, carrying a tray loaded with a teakettle, mugs, and all the necessary accoutrements. She crosses the room on tiptoe, careful not to wake your bridesmaids as they lie unconscious on various piles of blankets and cushions heaped about the room.

When she reaches you, she sets the tray down on your lap and bends over to kiss your forehead.

You offer her a sleepy smile, and a returned kiss on the cheek. “Morning.”

“Big day, today, huh?” She settles on the edge of your bed, her voice steady and focused even as her hands and eyes are otherwise occupied “A few hours left.”

“Yeah.” She hands you a cup of tea, and you gratefully accept. “Just a few hours left.”

“I’m happy for you, sweetheart.”

She doesn’t say anything more than that, choosing instead to busy herself with another teacup. You, having half expected  _ another _ ill-advised attempt to talk you out of the wedding, can only react with cautious surprise. 

“Really?”

“Yes.” There’s a sadness in her smile, but not the deep bitterness you’ve come to anticipate. It seems normal. Like any other mother getting ready to give her daughter away. “Really.”

“Thank you.” You set the tray on the nightstand before pitching forward to hug her. “Thank you.”

* * *

Barely an hour later, you’re sitting in front of your dresser mirror in a plush cream robe as your wedding party bustles about, touching up details of your hair and makeup and chattering away.

“Ladies! Look what just arrived for little-Miss-(Y/N).”

“Not  _ Miss _ (Y/N) for much longer!” Rosa crows.

“What? What is it?” You wait for Meg to finish evening out your eyeshadow before you open your eyes to look at the pale green envelope Irina is dangling before you. 

“Found it just now, outside the door.” She hands you the letter, and then steps back to rest a hand on her hip. “He couldn’t even wait until  _ after _ the wedding to start sending you love letters, huh?”

“Oh, shush.” You can’t help but smile a bit, though, and Meg takes the opportunity to add a few light sweeps of blush to the apples of your cheeks. 

It’s been a while since Loki has sent you a letter like this. You run a finger back and forth across the top edge. Something about the weight of the paper, that particular shade of green, your name written across the back in that familiar scrawl, it all brings you back to a time before. It makes you feel younger and more carefree than you have in a while. 

It reminds you of why you fell for him in the first place.

“Sorry I’m late! My flights got all mixed up, but I spent  _ ages  _ playing phone tag with the ticketing agent and they finally—”

“Sa- Ruby!” You slip the unopened envelope into your pocket as you rise to meet her, all but tripping over your own two feet in your haste. “You made it.”

“Watch it, hon.” She hugs you tightly, then pulls back to look at you with a hand on either shoulder. “Can’t be messing up your hair and makeup before you’ve even put on the dress.”

You nod, blinking back tears. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

“How could I miss it? You sent so many plus ones, I’ve got my sister  _ and _ my fiancée  _ and  _ her sister in tow.”

“Well, I cannot  _ wait  _ to meet the  _ actual _ Sapphire Georgas.” You give her a wink, and she hip-checks you with a laugh in return. “Have you seen the others yet? I taped off some rows for you all and your guests in the main room.”

“I’m honored,” she teases. Ruby seems so much happier than you remember—she was always perky, of course, but leaving of the constraints of the palace and her parents seems to have done her a world of good. There’s a lightness, an ease about her that you hadn’t realized she was missing. “Going back to the dress, though, is  _ this _ it?” She makes her way to the bed.

“Yes  _ and _ we should start getting her into it,” Rosa declares, coming over to give Ruby a hug of her own. 

You hang your robe carefully over the back of your dresser chair before going to step into the dress, grabbing Carlie’s hand for balance. Once the dress is pulled up and properly fastened, your hair carefully checked for snags, and the veil pinned to your head, you turn back to look at the mirror. 

It’s not the first time you’ve seen yourself in the dress, of course. But something about the context, about having all of your bridesmaids and your mother and sister there, about the soft definition of your makeup and the sleek curls swept back into a tasteful updo….

To be honest, it’s all a bit overwhelming.

You don’t realize how much you’re wearing your emotions on your face until Carlie pipes up, “What’s wrong?”

“What?”

“Oh, (Y/N)!” Meg tsks, leaning in to correct your eyeliner with a delicate thumb, and it’s only then you realize that you’re crying. “At least I used waterproof mascara.”

“I’m just…” You fight the urge to take in deep gulps of air, forcing yourself to breathe slowly lest you start to hyperventilate.  _ What is going on? _ “I’m just so happy.” 

You bite your lip, and the tears start to dry up, thank goodness. But that sense of... _ something _ still lingers.

You want to do this. Of course you want this marriage, you want this, you want  _ him.  _

“I’m just happy,” you say again, this time more firmly. “I’m happy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings,
> 
> Sorry this chapter was a bit later than usual! Get excited though, because we're hopefully going to be getting into the thick of the story very, very soon....
> 
> Keep me updated with thoughts, questions, and predictions in the comment box below. Love you all dearly!
> 
> xoxo,  
> DoeEyedDarling


	8. Chapter 8

Your parents both agree to walk you down the aisle.

You must admit, you ask them more out of obligation than any real desire. Yes, it feels good to have their blessing, but their behavior makes you feel more like they’re giving you  _ permission _ to get married, which is….frustrating, to say the least.

Still, the peace you’ve forged is so new, so tentative. Surely this is a small price to pay for such an important truce. Surely you can play at being their little girl for one more day.

And besides, none of that seems to matter when the doors to the hall swing open and the music plays and you see him. 

The sleekly cut tuxedo. The impish grin. The way his eyes look a bit glossy, as though he can’t quite focus on your face, as though he is beginning to tear up already. Perhaps he is. You know you certainly are. You’re suddenly grateful for the support of Mom and Dad on either side of you, because he looks so damn good that you're pretty sure your knees would buckle even  _ without _ the extra nerves. 

_ This _ is why you’re doing this. Why you want this. Four years of hope and heartbreak and healing, all leading up to this moment, to the day you can finally call this main (God. Alien. Whatever.) yours.

Each step closer to him has you feeling further and further from the ground, the slight dizziness you’ve been feeling all morning suddenly transformed into an almost euphoric high. About halfway down, it seems as though your heart might nearly beat out of your chest with sheer adoration. His sharp-tongued grin. His near-translucent skin. He looks dreamlike. Too good to be true.

Like,  _ actually _ too good to be true. Because the closer you get, the more you realize how his skin has an almost unearthly gleam to it, and there’s something unfamiliar about the look in his eyes.

You’re just approaching the altar when you hear the commotion amongst the guests: several loud gasps, and a collective wave of rustling. And before you can even twist your head around to see precisely what it is they’re gasping at, you realize what was off before: Loki isn’t looking at you.

He’s looking behind you.

You swirl to face the entrance to the hall. You take in the scene in bits and pieces before your mind is able to comprehend the whole. The white dress, stitched with diamonds instead of pearls. The loose-hanging hair. The elbow-length gloves. All of these unfamiliar details stand in direct contrast with the face, though, every line of which you know by heart, save the glassy look in her eyes.

In  _ your _ eyes.

Your parents each link their arms more securely through yours—the next immediate sign (as if you needed more) that something is very,  _ very  _ wrong. You use your full weight to launch yourself out from their grip. The force of it takes you back a step or two, and your heel catches in the train of your gown. You turn your head to look behind you, throwing out a hand to try and catch the fall. But when your fingertips brush Loki’s palm, he doesn’t take the opportunity to steady you. He can’t. Not when your hand passes through his like it would through a cloud of steam.

_ No. _

The dizziness strikes again as soon as you hit the ground at his feet. It’s stronger than before, immobilizingly strong. Your pulse is hummingbird-quick. You hear screams and other, worse noises. Crashes. Gunshots. But the sudden exhaustion is too heavy, too powerful for you to do much more than lay there and watch the not-Loki above you smile languidly, his gaze trained on your clone still floating down the aisle, both of them completely oblivious to the chaos.

“Stand cover!”

Fingers on your wrist. “She’s steady.” A hand on either side of your head. “We’ve got you, Miss. You’re going to be safe now.”

You manage to let your head loll to the side. You see the shoes of Loki’s clone vanish in a puff of silvery-green mist.

You don’t remember anything after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello darlings,
> 
> HELLO PLOT TWIST  
> this chapter is shorter than planned 🙈 so apologies for that. But the next one is almost completed and so will be uploaded as soon as possible!!  
> i love you all, stay safe/wear masks/social distance to the best of your ability. let me know your thoughts, predictions, questions, etc below! I’m incredibly excited/scared to see reactions to this chapter lol 
> 
> xoxo,  
> DoeEyedDarling


	9. Chapter 9

"You're moving. Cap, she's moving!"

Eyelids fluttering open, the first thing you see is a man. 

Your first realization: you know him. The rough hands, the tired eyes, the cocky grin—it’s been a while since your high school days, but you certainly remember doing a presentation on Tony Stark in your ninth grade social studies class. You remember his face all across the news, too, before and around and after the...situation with New York. His name disappeared from the headlines for a while immediately after Loki’s coup.The world’s superheroes all went suddenly quiet. You, and the rest of the world, wondered where they’d went; you personally imagined they had taken some time to recover. 

And then the competition started, and you were obviously occupied with other things. 

And now Tony Stark is here. In front of you.  Judging by the fact that he’s currently sitting by your bedside, with no scars or visible injuries, you’d say he’s healed up just fine.

Second realization: you are...well, in a bed. And it isn’t your own. 

"Where am I?"

Third realization: the tube shoved down your throat makes speaking difficult.

He must catch the way your eyes widen in fear, because he somehow grabs your wrist before you’re able to rip the thin plastic pipe out of your mouth. "No, no, no, no,  _ no _ , you  _ don't _ want to do that." Your breathing escalates, along with the beeping of the machines a few feet away. "Shh, shh. The doctors'll take it out, okay? As soon as it's safe." 

Another man enters the small white room, good-looking in a traditional sort of way—blonde haired and blue eyed, strong features. "What, couldn't handle her without one of your little suits?"

Stark scowls. "Yeah, yeah. She's freaking about the breathing tube, but I don't want to take it out until we get the okay from Fury."

"So much for your "genius.""

"I'd like to see you do better."

"Mmm!"

"Quiet, both of you."

Both men turn to look at you as a woman enters, short and busty and catsuit-clad. "Idiots." Shushing you gently, she removes the tube, shaking her head while you sucke in breath after glorious breath. Beneath the sheets, you clench your fists, but keep your face void of the fear that is threatening to consume you. You may not yet be queen, but the years you spent training have not gone to waste. You will not dishonor your fiancée or your family by showing these people how terrified you really are.

"Miss (L/N), I'm Agent Natasha Romanov of S.H.I.E.L.D. These are my associates, Steve Rogers and Tony Stark. I understand you have been through a lot, but would you be able to answer a few questions before we return you to your family?"

You stare at her, not understanding. "You aren't going to kill me?"

"No, of course not. I'm sorry we scared you, but there was no way for us to warn you about the rescue without alerting security."

"Rescue?"

"We have the palace on lockdown now.”

_ Return you to your family… _ “My parents. They helped you.” It’s not a question. She nods. “And, um, Loki.”

She nods again. You’re suddenly aware of the intense silence that’s fallen over the room. All three pairs of eyes are fixed on you, awaiting your question with baited breath.

You bite your tongue, looking for the right words. This was a rescue. They are—at least, they  _ think  _ they are—on your side. But you are near certain that their sense of goodwill towards you probably doesn’t extend to your fiancé. And so you think very, very carefully before you continue. “Is—where is he?”

Rogers clears his throat. “He escaped before we were able to take him into custody.”

Deep down, you think you already knew that. You feel your face fall. Out of your rapidly blurring peripheral vision, you catch the three of them exchanging looks. It’s kind of comical, really—a group of super-secret agents with no idea how to comfort a crying girl.

“Do you—”

“I’m sorry,” you choke out. You bend your head, but even your voice sounds thick with tears. “I just—Thank you. For getting me out of there.”

There’s no grand reaction from any of them. But the tension in the room seems to melt almost palpably, and you’re sure another look is passed around—one of victory.

“Rest assured, we will be doing all we can to ensure he is apprehended as soon as possible.”

“And in the meantime, you and your family will be under heavy surveillance. As a protective measure.”

Loki wasn’t taken. That shouldn’t be a shock to you—you saw the illusion of him in the wedding hall. More to the point, you saw the illusion of him disappear. But that begs the question—where is he? Where  _ was _ he during the attack? Did he know?

And why would he leave you behind?

Just the though has you sobbing harder than before. Agent Romanov passes you a box of tissues. You accept it, and force as grateful a smile as you can manage. “Thank you,” you repeat.

The questioning doesn’t last all that long. Half of their inquiries have easy answers, and the other half are things you don’t even know—did Loki ever hurt you (no), any hidden passages you know of in the palace (you lie and say no), do you have any idea where he could be now (a painful no).

More importantly, you find out several pieces of information from them. Such as your parents' involvement in the rescue. Or the fact that they currently have agents stationed around the palace, in case Loki tries to return there. Or the fact that they intend to send him back to Asgard as soon as they get their hands on him.

It’s hard to keep a neutral face at that last part.

After they leave, you finally allow yourself to panic. You press your pillow to your mouth and scream, digging your nails into your palms, but you can’t stop hyperventilating, because they're going to send him back to Asgard, and if you don't come up with something quick, the two of you will be realms apart without a way back, and you’ll have to face your friends and family and frenemies and everyone. You can see it now, the questions and pitying glances, the hugging and crying about how relieved they are that you’re okay while you try not to break down. 

You know him. You need him. And there are some things you need to tell him. Things you know you won’t be able to hide from them for long. Things with consequences you don’t even want to begin to consider. After all, you imagine S.H.I.E.L.D. would be very, very interested in a half-human, half-Jotunn child.

In  _ your _ child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings,
> 
> Sometimes,,,i forget that i came to the MCU fandom directly FROM reading loki/reader fics and not through the comics or the movies,,,,,,and then i try to write characters other than loki and i remember lmao (I love the avengers now, but I still truly have no idea how to write them! aha)
> 
> Anyway, s/o to everyone who called the pregnancy thing in the comments before!! And I'm sorry (kinda) for how mean last chapter was. I hope the quick update today makes up for it :')
> 
> What do you think is going to happen next? What actually happened at the wedding? Where was/is Loki?? Let me know your guesses (and any other questions you may have) in the comments below!
> 
> xoxo,  
> DoeEyedDarling


	10. Chapter 10

Somehow, you successfully manage to protest any blood tests, so the hospital doesn’t have any record of your pregnancy on file. 

You've only known for a little over a week now, and you're already feeling maternal. Take now, for instance, the way you wrap your arms around your stomach in the car.

Agent Romanov, your escort for the trip, doesn't notice. She doesn’t try to make conversation, either, mercifully enough. The thirty or so minutes of silence pass quickly, too quickly, as you find yourself retreating into the corridors of your mind. Since the day you woke up in the hospital, scarcely a minute has passed without you reviewing and re-reviewing the facts of the situation, which are these:

  1. You were “rescued” from the palace by a team of operatives who still believe Loki is a threat to the realm (how exactly they managed to learn the layout of the grounds and security measures, you don’t yet know).
  2. Loki has not been captured yet. Somehow he figured out the threat sometime between when you were taken down and when they began hunting in earnest for him.
  3. You are pregnant.



Out of these three givens, somehow it’s the third one that is weighing most heavily on you as the car pulls up in front of—

Well. Not home. But the house you used to call home.

You don’t say a word to your mother as you cross the threshold.

* * *

For the next few days, actually, you don’t say much of anything to anyone.

* * *

From your kidna—sorry, _rescuers_ ’—perspective, the events of your wedding day went something like this:

The dizziness you felt was the result of a sedative that your mother had stirred into your morning tea. You must have had a remarkable constitution, the doctors said, considering how long it took to kick in, and how little you remained unconscious for. What they didn’t know was that you hadn’t been able to keep most of it down—morning sickness, of course. Between the drinking of the tea and the actual ceremony, you had discreetly been ill in the bathroom. But you didn’t throw all of it up, and so—lucky for the rebel/rescue team—the drugs eventually _did_ kick in at the end of your walk down the aisle.

They hadn’t been successful in finding Loki _or_ the Tesseract, which, you were learning now, was some kind of magical battery? 

_“There is an item they could use. An energy source. It’s in the palace, under lockdown, heavily guarded.”_

At least Loki had been honest with you about that. Semi-honest, anyway.

Every day, multiple times a day, you try reaching out for him, across the mental link you’d formed, the way you did during your hometown visit so long ago. But it’s been so long since you’ve been separated from him for any length of time, you receive nothing back. Not even a weak pulse in response. You assume the connection must have fizzled out from disuse. A rational explanation, sure, but it does nothing to soothe your nerves.

You feel so _angry._ And not just at your parents. Not just at the agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Not just at yourself.

You’re angry at _Loki_.

Livid, really. Much as you want to give him the benefit of the doubt, he left you behind. He evaded being caught at your expense. The grief feels like a living thing trying to claw its way out of your chest, and you have no idea how to make it _stop._ There’s nothing you can do to rid yourself of the sting of abandonment. You’ve never been through a breakup before.

_Is that was this is? A breakup?_

The thought just makes you want to scream into your pillow even more.

* * *

You’ve been stewing silently for a week when Carlie knocks on the door.

"It's me."

You don’t answer right away. When you do, your voice sounds unfamiliar, raspy from disuse. 

“Come in.”

She shuts the door quietly behind her. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

You stare at each other for a few moments, unblinking. Carlie isn’t the child she was when you left home. She’s twelve—no, thirteen now. Still young, but old enough to understand at least some of the intricacies of your absence, the competition, your "rescue."

Neither of you seem to know what to say. 

“Did Mom send you?” You drag yourself into a sitting position, flipping back a cover and swiveling your body so that your legs hang off the side of the bed. You pat the space next to you. It’s a damn thin olive branch, but it’s an olive branch all the same.

She accepts, crossing the short distance from door to bed. You see her nose wrinkle slightly as she sits. You can’t exactly blame her. It’s been a while since you’ve changed your sheets. Or your clothes. Or showered. 

You don’t seem to have the energy for much these days.

“She did,” she admits.

“I figured as much.”

“I would have come on my own, but, like, you just...you seemed like you needed some space.”

You give her a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks.”

Another silence. She checks her phone, compulsively pressing the lock button. Your fingers itch to grab it. You haven’t been allowed Internet access yet. You’ve been doing your best to avoid seeming like a classic case of Stockholm Syndrome, but it’s a hard sell. Your house is under constant surveillance; it’s not like you could run away if you wanted to.

“I didn’t know,” she says quietly, turning her phone back over. Your gaze returns to her face. She looks guilty. Guilty, and confused. “About...I didn’t know what they were planning. Dad, and Mom, and Erik.”

_So Erik was in on it, too._

Actually, you’re less surprised by that than you are by the revelation that Carlie _wasn’t_ in on it. Like you said, she’s thirteen. That’s old enough to participate in a coup, right?

There’s another long pause. “I’m sorry,” she finishes lamely when you don’t respond.

“No. Me too.” You shake your head. “I promised I would be around more, and I—” You look back up, and see her eyes are as teary as yours feel. “God, did I even say goodbye the last time I was here?”

She laughs bitterly. “Not really."

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

The silence that follows is considerably more companionable than before. But you still have a feeling she wants to ask—

“Do you…” She bites her lip. “Do you think...”

Somehow, you know what it is she’s trying to ask. _Do you think you can forgive them, Mom and Dad and Erik? Do you think things will work out?_

_Do you think things will ever go back to the way they were?_

You open your mouth to respond, then close it again, eyes fixed on your hands in your lap. In the seven days since you’ve left the palace, all of your bad habits have come back. You bite your nails. Your perfect posture is nowhere to be found. It turns out all that was _really_ standing between you and your sixteen-year-old-self was a sudden removal of autonomy.

But that’s not Carlie’s fault.

“I don’t know.” It’s the only honest answer you can give. “I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

“But I’ll try,” you hurry to add. “I’ll…” You can’t say you’ll try to talk to the rest of your family. You just can’t. Carlie nods, like she gets it.

“Okay,” she says again. To your surprise (and slight disappointment), she stands to go without a hug. But then, at the door, she turns around. “I get it if you don’t want to talk to them. Cool. But do you think you could at least, like, take a shower? Maybe?”

You can’t help but laugh at that, and you see a matching twinkle in her eye. “Yeah.” For a moment, everything feels normal—you in the bedroom that used to be yours, getting dunked on by your bratty tween sister. “Yeah. I can do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings,
> 
> I hope the back-to-back updates aren't too overwhelming. I am *desperately* trying to procrastinate studying for my math midterm, which is prime circumstance for my writing muse to come out to play! Your reactions to last chapter have been giving me LIFE (and the willpower to study), so thank you for all the lovely, lovely comments. I really do go back and reread them whenever I need a pick-me-up.
> 
> I know there are many more questions left to be answered, so stay tuned for new chapters coming soon. As always, let me know any and all of your thoughts in the box below, and I'll see you next update!
> 
> xoxo,  
> DoeEyedDarling


	11. Chapter 11

“I want to go back h—” You clear your throat. “Back to the palace.”

Rosa tosses a French fry at you. “You can call it home in front of _me_ , genius. I lived there almost as long as you did.”

Day ten post-wedding. You’re allowed guests, but you still have yet to leave the house. The rule about staying inside is an unspoken one; you haven’t received an official mandate, because you haven’t tried to get out. Based on the twenty-four/seven security detail wandering the perimeters of the property, though, you’re pretty sure your assumption that you’re stuck here isn’t that far off. Not to mention the fact that, in order to visit you, Rosa had to ask for permission from the S.H.I.E.L.D. guards to come inside—maybe they were skeptical at first that she was bringing you fast-food takeout and not some secret, forbidden intel.

Interesting, too, is the fact that you two can still communicate. Does that just mean that the language spell hasn’t worn off yet?

_Or does it mean..._

You catch the fry before it hits the ground, and pop it into your mouth. “Yeah, yeah.” She sticks her tongue out at you. You’re grateful to see her here. There’s a lot you can’t ask her for fear of being overheard, but even her presence has put a bit more pep in your step. 

“I’m sure they’d let you go back, if you asked.”

“I mean…” You glance over your shoulder at the guard stationed by the kitchen window, and pitch your next words lower. “Would they?”

“You just want to grab some of your old stuff, though, yeah?” She takes another bite of her sandwich. “And it might be good for, y’know. Closure.”

“Closure.”

She nods. Her tone is airy, but her eyes are loaded with unspoken intent. “They can’t say no to that, right?”

* * *

They don’t say no to that—on the condition that you take an escort. Which, sure. Constant surveillance outside the house at least has the benefit of being, you know, _out_ of the house. You’re saddled with one tall, lanky security guard who doesn’t bother to introduce himself. You don’t bother to ask. It’s better to spend the trip there in silence than attempt awkward small talk.

You’re rendered even more speechless than before upon entering the foyer.

It’s almost painful to see how much the same it looks. The same, but...wrong. Too empty. Too quiet. Walking in with the guard behind you, you half expect to see Loki waiting for you.

He’s not. Of course.

But as you round a corner, heading down the hallway that leads to the kitchen, you do see someone else you recognize.

“Albert!” You run towards the older servant with little thought of the guard chasing after you. “You’re still here!”

He meets you in the hug, his embrace as warm and fatherly as you remember. “Good to see you back here, Miss.”

Your smile drops as you take stock of the mottled yellow skin around his left eye. “Oh my God.”

“The wed—the ceremony. Lot of ruckus that day, and I…” For a split second, he looks back at the guard behind you. “I suppose I tripped. Fell underfoot of a panicking guest. You understand.”

You grab his hand in yours. He winces, and you, looking down, realize his knuckles are healing from some type of scrape.

_He got hurt trying to stop the attack, didn’t he?_

You look up into his eyes and give him the slightest nod. “Thank you.” Your eyes dart in the direction of the guard, then back at Albert. “For staying, of course. I’m glad to see you here, it’s good to see a familiar face.”

He breaks out into a relaxed smile. “Then you’re in the right place.”

“Oh?”

“La—er, Miss (Y/N)!”

Familiar as Lady Amara’s voice is, her tone sounds off, somehow. Never before have you heard her sound so...deflated. When you turn around to the sight of her waltzing down the hallway, you see that, in spite of her ever-spritely step, her eyes have dulled to match her voice.

“ _Ms._ Amara.” 

“My dear.” You greet her with an air kiss to the cheek before she pulls back, holding you at arm’s length. “You look wonderful.”

With your under-eye circles and sleepwear-adjacent fashion choices? You doubt it. Honestly, the fact that she isn’t passive-aggressively laying into you about neglecting to get your beauty sleep? That concerns you more than anything else. 

“It’s wonderful to see you again.”

Past her, though the windows, you catch a glimpse of the open fields in back of the palace, and your heart aches. “And your students? They made it out safely?”

“Out?” She laughs softly. “No, dear.Safe, yes, but they’re still her, about. They stay away from your chambers, of course, but you’ll certainly see them out and about after you’ve been back her a while.”

“A while?” It takes you a moment to grasp her meaning. “Oh. I’m not staying her, actually.”

The brightness that had come into her expression quickly fades. “Ah.”

“Yeah. I just...I just came to grab a few things to bring back to...to where I’m staying.”

“I see.” 

She, like Albert, looks briefly at the security detail behind you. She reaches to touch your cheek, her eyes the kindest you’ve ever seen them.

“If you ever wish to return,” she says softly, “There will always be a place for you here.”

You feel your eyes well up. “Thank you,” you whisper.

She smiles, then pulls back to brush away a few tears of her own. “Well. I suppose I shouldn’t keep you any longer.”

You trade small nods (in place of curtsies, you suppose), before she turns and heads down the hall in the direction of the academy wing. 

“Miss? Shall we?”

Your security detail, God bless him, has been waiting patiently through all of that. You give him a shaky nod, and pull the strap of your bag more firmly over your shoulder. “This way.”

* * *

Your room is just as you left it. Unmade bed, tea tray on the nightstand; makeup strewn across your table. Everything appears exactly as it was the moment you changed into your wedding dress.

You wonder what happened to your wedding dress. You haven’t seen it since you woke up in the hospital.

“Would you mind,” you say quietly, “if I had a moment to myself?”

Your security guard looks surprisingly apologetic. “I’ll have to go through your bag once we return to the house.”

“Of course.”

“But I reckon…” He purses his lips. “Is there somewhere I could wash up? Just in case anyone walks in,” he adds, “if anyone comes to check on you, I can say I was busy.”

“Thank you,” you breathe. “There’s a private bathroom just through there.”

He shuts the door behind him. The bathroom isn’t exactly far; you’ll have to be quiet if you don’t want to be overheard, but that’s fine. It’s still more alone time than you’d anticipated. You spin in a slow circle, taking in the details. You see your vanity chair is pulled out slightly, your robe still draped across the back. You collapse into it, your frustration as potent as your exhaustion. _Damn, damn, damn._ You’d come here with the hopes of finding...you don’t know what. If you wanted to look for some proper clues, you should have gone to Loki’s private chambers, pretended they were yours. They’re too far to run to now, though, without the guard hearing you. 

You pull the robe off the back of the chair. The wine red silk is soft as you remember, and, by some miracle, unwrinkled after all this time. You turn it over in your hands, running the hem between your fingers. You suppose you’ll bring this back with you. That’s what you should be doing; if you’re not going to find any answers, you might as well do what you allegedly came her to do. You open the flap of your bag, and ball the robe up to stuff it in—

Only to hear something crinkle.

You open it back up, shake it upside down, and something flutters down from the right-side pocket. It’s an envelope, pea green and about the size of an index card. And your name, written hastily across the back in a hand you know all-too-well. A hand that seems messier than usual; more rushed, more panicked.

You recognize it. It’s the letter Irina found outside your door the day to the wedding. The one you’d been too distracted by Ruby to read. 

You practically tear it open.

**_Darling,_ **

**_An attack may be nearer than previously thought. I wish nothing more for this day to go as planned, but not at the risk of losing you. Hopefully you are able to act on this letter without raising suspicion._ **

**_Do not go down to the ceremony. Meet me in my private chamber. Bring your family._ **

It ends with his signature.

You clutch the note to your chest, sagging into the chair with—relief? Sorrow? 

You still don’t know how you’re going to find him again. You don’t know how you’ll possibly be able to forge a future together. But both options seem infinitely more possible with this piece of paper in your hand. With the proof that he loves you. The proof that he didn’t abandon you, after all.

The swell of relief doesn’t ebb as quickly as one would expect. Instead, it seems to mutate; first to panic, as you realize your time alone in this room is limited. You hurry to fold it up and tuck it into the pocket of your jeans, and then grab an assortment of random items to stuff into your knapsack: the robe, some slippers, a hairbrush. You’re just finishing up when your intern-watchdog comes back out of the bathroom.

“All set?”

“Yeah.” You sling the bag over your shoulder, suddenly aware of another feeling, just above your chest. Not a physical sensation, but...something. A hit of wanting, of need, and of comfort, too. 

It continues out into the hall. Your guard rounds the corner without noticing how far you’ve lagged behind. You close your eyes, pressing your hand just above your heart, and lean into the ache of it.   
It’s almost as though you can feel his hand in yours.

Your eyes flutter open. The line from your mind to his, the connection you thought was dead, flickers back to life. You can feel it, feel _him_ , feeling his guilt and impatience and longing line up perfectly with yours. And when you turn to look behind you, you already know what it is you’ll see.

The bowtie loose around his neck. His hair rumpled and messy, the skin beneath his eyes near purple from worry and lack of sleep; all of it fades away in the light of the smile he gives you. You take a step towards him, and he towards you, and so strong is the gladness in your chest that you don’t even notice the agent coming back around the corner.

They take him down before you even finish calling his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings,
> 
> Hope all is well/safe/healthy with you! This chapter took a bit longer than expected, but we're on our way to the good stuff... (I mean, would it really be a DoeEyedDarling story if we weren't still in the setup phase 11 chapter in?) But I promise, the juicy bits are on the way!  
> Lmk your thoughts, reactions, etc, and I will see you soon in the next chapter. Love you all!
> 
> xoxo,  
> DoeEyedDarling
> 
> (PS: ALSO I've started in on the Pinterest board for this story! It's v much a work in progress, and probably won't start to make sense until we get another few chapters or so in, but if you want to check it out I've linked it in the end notes for the work)


	12. Chapter 12

He falls, a tranquilizer dart sticking out the side of his neck. You run to him, crouch by his side, speechless as S.H.I.E.L.D. agents swarm from all directions. How foolish of you to believe they trusted you to come back. To believe they _wouldn’t_ use you as bait.

To believe Loki wouldn’t come back for you as soon as he could.

* * *

With Loki in custody, the security presence around your house is gone within the day.

When you’re summoned to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters the next day, you aren’t sure what it is you’re expecting. A pity reunion, perhaps. A last goodbye. You’re blindfolded the entire time, from house to car, down a set of stairs, and through a set of convoluted left and right turns. 

But when you arrive at your final destination, and the blindfold is removed to reveal a small, interrogation-looking room, it’s not Loki you see sitting on the other side of the table. Or Agent Romanov, or any S.H.I.E.L.D. operative you’ve met.

“(Y/N).” Rhea gives you a small smile that falls somewhere between cold and rueful. “It’s been a while.”

You have no words.

You’ve grown fully accustomed to the sight of normal clothes by now, even on Meg and Rosa and Irina. But for some reason, the sight of Rhea in anything but full ballroom regalia feels...extra wrong. Her denim jacket, her blouse, the lack of jewelry; even her hair (which, for the first time you can recall, is not curled and pinned to her head, but hanging loose past her shoulders with layers framing her face). In truth, the modern dress makes her look...not younger, but less regal. Less mature. Less intimidating. It’s almost enough to make you forget that the last time you saw her, she was threatening to slit your throat.

Almost.

“Please.” She gestures to the empty seat before you. “Sit.”

The fidgeting is the worst it’s been since the abduction. Your fingers rub against each other quickly, panicked, scrabbling at the edges of your pockets as though you’ll find some kind of weapon there. Something you can use to protect yourself.

“I think I’ll stand.”

She cocks her head, but doesn’t comment on your obvious discomfort. “Very well.”

“What are you doing here?” you breathe. “Why?”

“When I came to S.H.I.E.L.D. with the promise of information that could help them take…” She swallows. “...help them take _him_ into custody, it was under one condition.”

_Information._

“It was you.” Anger overtakes fear, and you take a step towards her. “That’s how they were able to get into the palace undetected. It was you.”

“You’re just now coming to that conclusion?” She chuckles. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You always were a bit slow on the uptake.”

You ignore the jab. “So you exchanged them intel on the palace blueprints in exchange for...for a pardon?”

“Pardon? Pardon for what?”

You gape at her. “For attempted murder?” You flinch at the thought of the blade pressed against your neck, the memory almost as sharp as the real thing.

“Oh, your engagement day?” Her expression sobers a bit. “No, I think that paled in comparison to the numerous lives lost when your husband—I mean _fiancé_ —came to Earth.”

“That wasn’t him.”

“So he says. To be honest, I don’t particularly care if he was coerced or brainwashed into it. Either way, he’s too dangerous to live.”

Your stomach plummets.

“Part of my bargain with S.H.I.E.L.D. was that I be given a say in his sentence.” 

“You can’t—they can’t kill him.”

“They should.”

“They—”

“But I asked them not to.” She leans back. “I requested that he instead sent him back to whatever godforsaken planet he came from.”

You feel hollow. 

“Is that…” You lean against the wall behind you, as though the cold grey walls will lend you strength. “Is that all you called me here to tell me?”

She breaks eye contact with you for a moment. But before she looks away, you catch a glimpse of something in her gaze.

Guilt.

“I’m sorry that you had to get caught up in this, (Y/N).”

The shock melts a bit, and you’re able to respond, “Yeah. It sure sounds like it.”

“I mean it.” She leans forward. You flinch, and a bit of her anger fades. “You were young. You _are_ young.”

“Stop.”

“(Y/N)—”

“I don’t want your apologies,” you spit. “I don’t...I don’t want whatever _this_ is.”

She purses her lips, and nods. “Very well.” She gestures to someone behind you, and the door reopens. The agent who escorted you here goes to put the blindfold around your eyes.

You put up a hand to stop him looking back at Rhea. “When will he be leaving?”

“I’d be surprised if he isn’t already gone.”

You’ve done many rash things in your life. And after the past week or so of shock slowing your reflexes and keeping you paralyzed, you can feel the reckless part of your brain twitching to act. 

Pushing the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent aside and tearing off down an unfamiliar hallway might not be the _most_ impulsive thing you’ve ever done, but it probably would rank somewhere in the top ten.

* * *

Where you’re going, what you’re looking for—you don’t know, but you run. Past doors and surprised security guards, rounding corners at random. You sprint like your life depends on it, looking in through the window of every room you pass. A monitor. A familiar face. Something.

It doesn’t take long for you to hear quick, pounding footsteps ring out loud behind you, but you do not look back. You cannot look back. Even as you realize, too late, that you’re coming up to the end of a hall with no corners to turn, just an unmarked door.

They’re gaining on you.

You stop before the door, panting. When you look up and see what’s past the glass pane, your heart just about stops beating.

There he is, handcuffed and muzzled, just a few yards away. He keeps his gaze on the ground; consequently, he does not see you. None of them do, he or the half dozen agents surrounding him. You watch as the well-muscled blond besides him—his brother, you think, Thor? Another face from the newspapers—holds on to one side of a brilliant neon-blue cube, handing the other to Loki.

This is it.

You take a deep breath. You don't know if humans can survive inter-dimensional travel, or if it's even been tried before. But you push your doubts aside. You cannot let him go alone. And you know they will never let him stay. 

Thor twists one side of the tesseract.

You run forward. Push through the door.

And in a flash of blue light, the only world you've ever known is ripped away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello loves,
> 
> off to study for yet *another* exam :( So I figured I would post this chapter in order to procrastinate! I have the next chapter written, so that will be up sometime in the next week (maybe the next few days).
> 
> keep me updated with your comments, questions, concerns and predictions! love you all dearly.
> 
> xoxo,  
> doeeyeddarling


	13. Chapter 13

The landing jolts you quite a bit, and you clutch at your stomach instinctively, using your free hand to clutch Loki's elbow for balance. At the sudden contact, he looks over, his eyes widening when he sees you. 

"What is this?"

This voice doesn’t belong to Loki, and sounds too old to be Thor’s. It is sharp and slightly raspy, cutting through the air of the—is this a throne room? Giving your surroundings a quick scan, you notice guards standing at intervals, and, besides the throne, a tall, regal looking woman in a blue robe. The speaker, you see, is a man of average height, strong and stocky looking beneath his armor, with a golden eyepatch.

His query, you realize, is directed at you.

You break away from Loki, straighten your spine, and bow as gracefully as one can in skinny jeans. "I am (Y/N), sir—"

"You will address me as Your Majesty, mortal," he snaps. 

_This is Loki’s father?_

"Of course. Forgive me.” You take a small step back and bow again—more deeply this time. “I am (Y/N), Your Majesty, of The United States of America, on Earth—I mean, Midgard—and I am the fiancée of your son."

The eyebrow above his good eye quirks up. "Is that so?" You try not to squirm as he analyzes your appearance. "You've trained her well in speech, though her manner of dress is somewhat lacking."

"Your Majesty, this is not what I would normally—"

"Silence!" 

You clam up immediately, willing yourself to stand your ground. 

_“The Allfather and I...never did see eye to eye.”_

Everything Loki told you, it’s beginning to make sense. How he felt as though he was cheated of a throne. How he felt abandoned by his father. And you see now the most important thing he never mentioned: how similar he is to his adopted father. 

The need for power. 

The expectation of respect. 

You’d never point it out to either of them, of course, but it would seem that Loki’s feelings for Odin err more on the side of desperation to please than they do hatred.

“You allowed her to come _why_ , exactly?”

Thor shakes his head. “I did not, Father.”

You can’t keep your mouth shut. “I came here of my own accord.”

“You are brave, mortal.” He circles you, looking you up and down. “Recklessly so. You are a liability.” He sweeps around, climbing the stairs back to the throne, and waves his hands at one of the guards. “Take her away.” The guards start towards you, spears at the ready, and you hear a muffled cry from Loki behind you as two guards take him down the hall.

“No.” 

Odin’s head snaps back. Your voice rings through the room, echoing lightly against the high arch of the ceiling. The guards halt a few feet away from you, looking uncertain.

You raise your chin, unblinking. “I will not be treated as a criminal.”

“You have entered Asgard without permission.”

“I mean you no harm, Your Majesty. I only ask that, when you send me back—” Because of _course_ you have to go back. Rhea, S.H.I.E.L.D., they don’t have to know. You will change your name, your life, anything, but you will not let Loki rot in a cell for crimes that weren’t his to begin with “—I ask that I take my fiancé with me.”

“There is no way back.”

You’re pretty sure you misheard him. You must have misheard him, because there’s no way he just told you… “But the Tesseract—”

“Will be locked away immediately,” he interrupts. “Since you are so fond of _him_ , you may remain with him until he is sentenced.” He nods again to the guards. They pause a moment, waiting for you to protest, before following his instructions.

“All right, all right!” You pull your elbow out of one guard’s grasp. “I'll go willingly, Your Majesty, so long as your guards stop trying to _manhandle_ me.”

He shrugs. “I make no promises.”

With that, the throne room doors shut behind you.

* * *

The palace is even larger than the one back home, the ceilings higher, pillars thicker. It’s a marvel of architecture. Intimidating. Gorgeous. If only you had the time to truly appreciate it. Even the dungeons have a strange sort of magic to them—there are no bars, just a golden web covering each cell, like stained glass.

You reach the end of the row, and the guards shove Loki into a cell. You’re about to object, but before you can, one of them picks you up and quite literally throws you in after him. The gold force field appears, and you’re left rubbing your head and wincing as the guards walk away.

“Darling." You feel him wrap his arms around you, helping you to sit up before pulling you to him. He leans back, then, looking at you in disbelief. “You came here?”

“Of course.”

“I had...I had assumed…” He trails off.

Whatever gaps in communication may exist between you two, you understand immediately what he’s trying to say.

“Me too,” you say quietly.

“You thought I'd...” You nod, avoiding making eye contact. "Well. I suppose we both leapt to assumptions, didn't we?"

Though there is an attempt at humor in his tone, he sounds hurt. Hurt and ashamed, just as you do. You hardly can be angry at him for thinking you were working with S.H.I.E.L.D. to capture him, when you'd assumed so easily that he had left you for good. But the realization that you both were so quick to fear the worst still cuts deep.

Wasn't this why you'd taken a year before the wedding? To grow? To learn each other better than before?

How could that all have been wiped away so quickly?

“I didn’t see your note until they sent me back to the palace. I didn’t see it the day of the wedding, and then you were just gone. I didn’t…” You look up into those green, green eyes. You see in them a remorse that mirrors your own. “I thought you’d just left.”

“You didn’t know.”

“I didn’t know,” you confirm. “But you came back.”

"And you...you threw yourself into the Tesseract.” He squeezes your hands, and a hint of frustration enters his voice. “What in the nine realms were you thinking?"

"I couldn't just let you go!"

"You risked your life. You didn't think—you _never—_ " He cuts himself off when he catches a glimpse of your shocked expression. 

"What" There is a physical gap between you, now, your hands not touching anymore. "I never what?"

"Perhaps now isn't the time—"

"When else do we have?" He doesn't respond, and the anger bubbles up in your chest. "Tell me. Tell me, Loki, what is it I did that's so—"

"You're reckless." He spits it quietly, but with an intensity that nearly knocks the wind from your chest. "You don't think, (Y/N)."

You stutter for a few seconds. "If I'd stopped to consider my options back at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, you would be in this cell alone right now. You do realize that?"

"As I should be!"

"What?"

"This is my responsibility. Solely mine" Somehow, without realizing, you've both ended up on your feet. You can’t remember the last time you saw him tense in quite this way. Seeing his family, his homeland, seems to have made him cagier, more on edge. "The number of people I hurt on Midgard alone—"

"You—"

"Just because it was unintentional doesn't mean it didn't happen." 

"So you were just going to let yourself be taken, then?" You let out a short, bitter laugh. "If I hadn't come, you wouldn't have put up a fight at all?" He steps towards you, and you put up a hand to stop him. "No. You don't get to yell at me about being reckless when you're really just upset at yourself. That's not fair."

"My birthright may have been a broken family, but that's no excuse for having torn so many others apart." One hand clenches into a fist at his side. "You had a family that loved you, (Y/N). Loves you. I was the monster who stole their daughter, the beast that kept the princess captive and forced her to love him. And now I am to be the reason you may never see them again."

"I _chose_ you!" you cry. You want to take a step towards him, but it feels wrong, all of this is wrong. You're not sure if the ache in your chest is from fury or sorrow; maybe both. "I chose to love you. I chose to leave my family, because—"

"You chose to leave them because of me. I know, (Y/N). I know, and it kills me anew every time I am reminded of it." When your eyes meet, you don't recognize the chill that's entered his gaze. "Again and again, you chose so easily to abandon what many would kill for, all for a man who was never worthy of your love to begin with. _That_ is what was reckless."

You stare at each other for a few deadly moments, unblinking. And, in spite of his accusations of recklessness—or perhaps because of them—you think very, very carefully about your next words before you speak again.

"I chose you," you repeat quietly. "I chose you over a family that chose themselves over me."

He says nothing. But already the icy ire in his expression has begun to thaw. A small thing, but it gives you hope, it gives you courage, and here is where your recklessness might just serve you well, because you're going to tell him:

"And I—" _C'mon. It's now or never. "_ I—" _Pregnant. Just say it, just say the word._ "I'm—"

"Bleeding."

"What?"

"You're bleeding." He runs a few fingers across your hairline, and shows you the red stain. He touches the wound again, and this time you feel the stinging fade. "There."

"I—" You sigh. "Thank you." 

_I'm sorry._

You don't apologize out loud, but you think he knows. You feel it from him, too.

Just like that, you lose your nerve again. Instead of blurting out what's been on your mind for the past three weeks, you lean forward and kiss him, gently as you can. One kiss becomes two, and then more, bruised and angry and exhausted as you both are, and you feel a bit of his usual restraint melt away at the feel of your waist beneath his hands, pulling you more closely against him than you recall him doing ever before. It feels like an act of survival, this. Clinging to each other as though somehow the feeling of his skin against yours will erase every harsh word and disloyal thought either of you have spoken or felt over the past week, the past year, the past lifetime.

You wonder if he can taste the same desperation on your lips as you do on his. 

For a while, all you can do is hold him, and let him hold you. Eventually, you drift off, his arms shielding you from the chill of the cell. _I’ll tell him,_ you promise yourself. _I’ll tell him when we wake up._

_Just not right now._

* * *

You’re not certain how long you’ve slept for, only that the rest has done you some good. Yes, your neck and hips are stiff from too long lying on the bare floor, but even that is worth it, if only for your renewed sense of optimism. They can’t keep you in this cell forever, right? You’ve been through worse. You will overcome this, somehow. You will get him out. 

You must.

But before that, you have to tell him the truth.

You glance over to where he stands opposite you, casing one corner of the cell for any potentially exploitable weaknesses. You both have been mostly silent the entire time in the cell. You were already reluctant to share the news of the pregnancy, and now… there’s a disconnect, between the two of you. Not just the mental link, either. The aura has changed, after being separated so forcefully, after all of the wondering where he was, wondering if he’d abandoned you altogether, if you’d abandoned him. 

It hurts just to think about.

He hasn’t been any more inclined to strike up a conversation than you are. 

But he still smiles when he catches you looking his way, and he still crosses the cell to meet you in the middle for another embrace.  
“No luck on my end,” you murmur.

“Likewise.” You feel the light repetition of his hand stroking your hair, and you can’t help but relax into him a bit further. “It will be alright.”

You’re not entirely certain he believes it. But you nod your agreement into his shoulder all the same.

It’s interesting, how, even in the face of actual, literal death, your stomach still tenses up with nervous butterflies at the thought of telling your fiancé that you’re pregnant. The human mind is funny like that. 

_Enough delaying._

You take a deep breath, still resting your cheek on his shoulder, cowardly avoiding his gaze. Before you can so much as open your mouth, though, you’re cut off by another voice. Not Loki. A voice from outside the cell.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a mortal on Asgard.”

You don’t recognize the speaker. But you notice the way Loki’s muscles stiffen, and the way he breaks away to stand slightly in front of you, and you feel your heart run cold.

Out of the shadows steps a woman with a dancer’s bearing and a rich bronze complexion that seems almost luminescent, as though she were somehow lit from within. Her hair, braided back from her face with raspberry-pink blossoms woven in, is gathered into a high ponytail that falls nearly to her waist. Even at this distance, you can see her eyes match the color of the flowers, which are also wound in small garlands around her wrists. The pale ivory silk of her dress shimmers around her ankles, making her seem to almost float, rather than walk, through the transparent front wall of the cell. 

She stops a step or two too close to him. You resist the urge to make a possessive comment as she hooks one finger under the chain that has suddenly reappeared between his wrists. 

She barely spares a glance in your direction. 

When she fixes her gaze once more on him, her full lips quirk upwards, and you see a new edge appear in her amaranth eyes.

“Young prince Loki, tied down at last.” Her voice is so soft and sweet, her tone so lighthearted, it’s difficult to read her meaning. “I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

He purses his lips. “Hello, Sigyn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi loves,
> 
> Long time no see! My exam went well :) I don't have the next chapter finished yet, so what I *should* do is be responsible and delay posting this chapter for another few days to maintain a consistent schedule. Unfortunately, though, I am impulsive (y/n had to get it from somewhere, right?) and impatient and couldn't wait to post again, so here ya go!
> 
> Thank you guys, as always, for all the wonderful feedback. It makes me super excited to see everyone's reactions and predictions; getting to be social with all of you has been keeping me sane throughout quarantine. As always, I hope everyone is safe and healthy; I love you all, lmk your reactions/questions/etc in the little box below, and I will see you next update!
> 
> xoxo,  
> DoeEyedDarling


	14. Chapter 14

It’s enough to stun you into silence. Your mind takes off a mile a minute at the mere mention of her name.

_“Goddess of fidelity.”_

_“Yes. Loyalty. The purest embodiment of loyalty.” He turns your hand over, tracing the creases of your palm, before looking back up. “Sigyn and I were very close in a way that the Nordic people mistakenly took as marriage. We protected each other.”_

_“Took care of each other,” you say, thinking of the way you used to be with your friends back home._

_“Yes. We weren’t in love, but we were together.” Something behind his eyes shifts. It’s not hard to tell that his mind is a million miles away. “You know, she would have done anything to save the people she loved.”_

Would have. _Would have._ And yet here she is, as alive as anyone you’ve ever seen, and staring at Loki with an intensity that makes you feel as though you might as well not even be in the room. Cell. Whatever.

“I must say,” he remarks, his tone far too light and airy to match the magnitude of the moment, “I’m surprised to see you returned to Asgard.”

“Father retired.”

“Then I suppose congratulations are in order.”

“It’s old news.” A somber note enters her voice. “You were gone a long time.”

“Mm.”

“When I first received news of your return, I could scarcely believe it.” 

He gestures to himself as best as he can with his hands bound before him. “And now?”

“Now?” Sigyn smiles sadly, her heart-shaped face pretty as a porcelain doll’s. “Now I believe it more than I’d like to.”

“My sincerest condolences.” The biting wit. The hint of sincerity. You're not used to hearing it directed at other people, not like this, and you wish, you _wish_ you could see his face. “What an honor for me, though. To have the ambassador to Alfheim herself come down to escort me to my trial.” She lifts one brow in response, and he chuckles. “That is why you’re here, is it not?”

“You and the mortal, yes.” She begins to walk back through the door of the cell, which lets her pass easily. 

Loki hesitates. “She has committed no crime.”

“I was told to bring you both.” For the first time, she turns her full attention to you. “Unless _you_ would rather wait here alone?”

You shake your head.

“I thought not. Come along, then.”

You feel Loki’s hand in yours as you climb up, up, up the endless stairs, but your mind is so far away you may as well have left it back on Midgard. 

His shackles have grown along the way, chains climbing up to his neck, a pair heavy around his ankles. You are met at the top of the stairs by four more guards. One grabs the end of a chain on either side of Loki, forcing you to shuffle to the side. Your hand feels unbearably empty. You end up sandwiched between the other two guards, though you remain noticeably unchained. You assume they aren’t particularly concerned about the physical threat (or lack thereof) posed by one mortal girl.

If only they knew what you could do with a fish fork.

Seeing as how you’re decidedly unarmed, though, you go without complaint. As you walk down the hallways at a somber pace, you can’t help stealing glances in her direction.

Her.

Sigyn.

Loki had said they weren’t in love, and you trusted— _trust_ him. But there is still a history between them. You can see it in her eyes, in the way his face lit up when he heard her voice, and it has left you at a loss for words. This isn’t exactly anything you could have predicted. You don’t recall Lady Amara ever giving a lecture on “conversing with your significant other’s… not ex, exactly, but definitely something _like_ an ex.” 

Perhaps you’d skipped afternoon lessons that day.

The throne room is no less intimidating the second time you see it. Odin remains atop the throne with the same blue-robed woman to his right. As you and Loki are brought to a stop, you see Sigyn continues forward. She climbs the stairs to the throne, stationing herself on the other side.

The regal-looking woman is the first to speak. "Loki."

He smirks at her. "Hello, mother. Have I made you proud?"

The look she gives him is heartbreaking. "Please, don’t make this worse." She says it steadily, quietly pleading. You find your sentiments mirroring hers.

"Define worse?"

"Enough!" Odin barks.

The gleam that has appeared in Loki’s eyes upon entering the throne room is one you don’t recognize in the slightest. Glib. Cavalier. He looks every bit like the monster who conquered your planet, not at all like the man whose ring you’re currently twisting nervously around your finger.

"I really don’t see what all the fuss is about?"

"Do you not truly feel the gravity of your crimes? Wherever you go there is war, ruin and death."

"I went down to Midgard to rule the people of Earth as a benevolent God.” But he changed. He gave that up. So _why isn’t he defending himself?_ “Just like you."

"We are not Gods. We are born, we live, we die. Just as humans do."

"Give or take five thousand years." 

The Allfather stares down in disgust, as though Loki were something he peeled off the sole of his boot. "All this because Loki desired a throne."

"It is my birthright!"

"Your birthright was to _die_!" he snaps. Both you and Loki flinch. "As a child. Cast out onto a frozen rock. If I had not taken you in, you would not be here now to hate me."

"If I’m for the axe, then for Mercy’s sake, just swing it.” You stop breathing at that. “It’s not that I don’t love our little talks, it’s just… I don’t love them."

Odin shakes his head. "Frigga is the only reason you’re still alive, and you’ll never see her again. You’ll spend the rest of your days in the dungeon."

_No._

"And what of Thor? You’ll make that witless oaf King while I rot in chains?" You hear the anger in his voice, and you feel suddenly small. Forgotten. You thought he had given up his lust for power.

You thought he’d given it up for you.

"Thor must strive to undo the damage you have done. He’ll bring order to the nine realms and then, yes, he will be King." For the first time, Odin acknowledges your presence. "The mortal will stay with you. You can watch her starve to death, for all I care."

Loki's eyes widen, his snarky facade gone. "No. Do not punish her for my mistakes."

"Many human lives were lost during your stay on Midgard. What’s one more?"

"Her suffering is unnecessary."

"The deaths you have caused were unnecessary!" Odin roars. "You have shown no remorse for your actions thus far. The death of one more mortal will not matter in the grand scheme of things. No," he snaps, jerking away from the queen's touch. "I will not be swayed in this."

"Before I am to be locked up forever, Your Majesty, I beg you, hear me out." When he makes no move to stop you, you approach Frigga, dropping to your knees before her. "My Queen, you are a mother. If your husband will not pardon Loki as his son, perhaps he will pardon him as a fellow father." You look up at her, tears in your eyes, pitching your voice so that only she and the king can hear you. "And I, as a mother-to-be."

Her eyes widen slightly, just enough that you know she understands your plea. You stay down, trembling. "Please," you whisper. "Please."

"Enough." When you look back up, you see Odin's eyes are burning. "Take the prisoner back to his cell."

You feel yourself go numb, feel the energy drain from your body as you wait for the truth of this to sink in. You don't flinch against the guards’ approach. Before they can shepherd you away, Odin raises a hand.

“Leave the mortal.”

“No.” You leap to your feet, only to be restrained by a guard who holds you back by your arms. "No—Loki!”

"(Y/N)—"

You're both still screaming as the doors slam shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings,
> 
> Although the trial scene is entirely lifted from TDW, I still don't plan on making this story canon compliant (so we probably won't be seeing any Jane Foster, etc). It's just a remnant of the earliest version of this story from back when I was 17 (reason #2340908 why you shouldn't start writing sequels before you finish the first book...), before I actually got to the end of the first fic and realized I wanted to take it in a different direction.
> 
> As always, let me know all your thoughts below, and I'll see you next update! :)
> 
> xoxo,  
> DoeEyedDarling
> 
> P.S: fun fact—Sigyn didn't even exist as a character in this until after I had already posted the first few chapters! I had mentioned her in the argument scene between Y/N and Loki in chapter 2 way back when, and hadn't really planned on bringing her into the story beyond that.....until i realized that a) it was kind of pointless to mention her once and then never mention her again, and b) introducing her to story opened up so many new avenues for the plot! That's honestly is a good example of how I end up writing most of my foreshadowing—it's always fun to plant little seeds of potential future plot points, so that you'll have an opportunity to cultivate them later in the story, even if you're unsure at first where they're going!


	15. Chapter 15

As soon as the guard releases you, you stumble, only to be caught by the queen. You collapse in her arms, sobbing.

"As clumsy as she is foolish," Odin mutters. "I see no reason to let you live. If anything, I should rid the world of you and the abomination you carry." You squeeze your eyes shut. You'd sooner kill him than let him hurt your baby. "But I am not so cruel. You will be allowed to bear it to full term. And you will never see  _ him _ again."

The words ring hollow in your mind as the tears run down your face. There is an spark, a fire deep within your chest, that urges you to fight. To lunge at the guards, the crowd, Odin himself—to charge at them all, to battle with tooth and nail until all the doors are unlocked and you are able to drag Loki back to Midgard, once and for all. 

But a voice echoes in your ear.  _ You’re reckless. You don’t think, (Y/N). _

This isn’t what Loki would want. More to the point, if you act rashly now you’ll be proving him right.

So instead you bite your tongue. You straighten up, brushing back tears and neutralizing your expression as best you can, and you nod. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

You don’t protest as the guards usher you away.

* * *

They set you up in a fairly comfortable room. Extremely comfortable, actually; all lit fireplaces and plush carpets and finely-carved furniture.

You’ll be the coziest prisoner in all the land.

It doesn’t even look like a guest room. Whoever prepared it for you must have gone to great lengths to dust and air out the whole thing, but that’s not it. This space feels distinctly lived in. There’s a book on the nightstand, and papers scattered across the desk; the walls are lined with floating shelves carrying any number of little trinkets. You reach for the one nearest you—a small wooden puzzle box, reminiscent of a Rubik’s cube—only to pull your hand back at the last moment. You lived with Loki for years. You know what magic feels like. Most, if not all, of these knick-knacks must be imbued with some amount of it. You wonder what would happen if you  _ were _ to touch one.

You decide to leave that query untested for today.

Hours later, you’re freshly bathed and sitting cross-legged against the headboard, swaddled in an oversized robe you pulled out of the closet, combing your hair, when you hear a knock at the door.

“Come in.”

Sure, you should probably be as on-guard as possible here. But you doubt you could  _ actually _ stop anyone from entering your room if you tried, so what’s the point? 

And you doubt that Frigga, of all people, has it out to get you. Even now, as she crosses from the door to meet you by the foot of your bed, her presence puts you at ease. 

“Your Majesty.” You rise to curtsy, but she holds a hand up.

“There’s no need for such formalities. Please, sit.” You obey. “How are you finding your accommodations?”

“More than comfortable.” You realize you’re picking at your nails. It’s a bad habit you re-picked-up during your brief stay at your parents’ house, and it’s proving even harder to quit this time around. You fold your hands neatly in your lap in an attempt to still the nervous movement. “Truly. You are...this is too kind. All of it. I can’t thank you enough.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” To your surprise, she comes around to sit on the edge of your bed. "How old are you, my child?"

You suppose you should be used to that question by now. "Old enough." 

You realize a moment too late that sarcasm isn’t necessarily the best course of action here. To your surprise, though, she smiles at your playful deflection. "I can see why my son is so enamoured of you."

You're even more startled by her words. "After everything, you still consider him your son?"

"Do you not still love him?" You nod. "I raised him. Whatever Odin may say, Loki is my son. There are stronger bonds than mere flesh and blood."

"Odin seems..."

"He can be cruel. But he does what he believes is best for the realm." She leans forward, wiping one last tear from your cheek. "As you now must do what is best for your child."

"And Loki?"

"I will see to it that he is comfortable, but there is not much more that I can do. I am forbidden to see him, as are you."

"And you're just going to accept that?"

She sighs, looking away. "A ruler must do many unpleasant things—"

"—for the good of their kingdom," you finish with her. She looks up, surprised. "I’ve heard that in quite a few arguments over the years."

“Years?” She places a gentle hand over yours. "You're a brave girl, winning the love of a man who destroyed so many of your people."

"He didn’t—I mean, yes, but...you, of all people, must know that wasn’t him.”

She looks away. “I know. I suspect Odin does, as well.”

“But then why—”

“What proof have you or I of his innocence?” For the first time, you detect a note of bitterness in her voice. She’s right, of course. You have no proof. No proof but your trust, and something tells you that’s going to get you even less far here than it did back on Earth. If Midgardians saw you as a silly, inexperienced girl for being just barely out of your teens, what must you look like to a population made entirely of old gods?

The thought is overwhelming. Even your concept of forever pales in comparison to an Asgardian’s idea of eternity. Loki will spend the rest of his life in a cell, which means he will certainly spend the rest of  _ your _ life in a cell, and that means…

“I never told him,” you say quietly. One hand flits to your lower abdomen, recalling the reason you are allowed to live in the first place. “About the baby. He never knew, and now…”

_ I’m really, truly never going to see him again. _

You feel Frigga wrap her arms around you before you even realize you’re crying.

As she strokes the back of your head, rocking you gently, you feel a deeper peace settle into your bones than you’ve experienced in quite some time. At least part magic, you’re certain, but there is also the realization that it has been so long since you’ve felt so...accepted. Accepted in such a maternal way.

As much as you want to deny it, you miss your mom. And your dad, and your siblings, and your friends—those who supported you and those who didn’t. It is a feeling similar to your first arrival at the palace at sixteen, and yet there is a new dimension to this grief that is entirely unfamiliar, because then at least you had some hope of seeing them again, and now…

It was a difficult life you left back on Midgard, but it was  _ yours _ , and now it is gone. 

The tears fall even faster. Frigga shushes you gently.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, though you make no move to pull away. “I didn’t—I just—”

“Do not apologize for the mistakes of others,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry I can’t do more to ease the pain. But it will pass, I promise.”

You can’t keep your voice from breaking as you ask, “Will it?”

She nods. “In time.” She reaches to touch your face, wiping away a few errant tears. “But in the meantime, you should rest. I’ve arranged some plans for you tomorrow.”

“Plans?”

“Social plans.”  _ So soon? _ She must sense your reluctance, because she continues, “I understand this is a difficult transition to make, and I don’t wish to rush your grief. But the sooner you are immersed in the social customs of Asgard, and the safer you will be.”  _ Safer? _

You have so many questions, but you can’t deny that you are absolutely exhausted. So you nod. 

“Is there anything more you wish to discuss, before I leave you?”

“I—” There is one more thing—or, one more  _ person,  _ rather—that you haven’t been able to shake from your mind since this morning. But you shake your head. Sleep now, questions later.  _ After all, I’m going to spend the rest of my life here. I have all the time in the world. _ You try not to wince at the thought. “No. Thank you.”

“Sleep well, (Y/N).”

“Goodnight, Your Majesty.”

As the door closes behind her, before you have a chance to blow out the candles, you hear a light clicking noise. You wait a few moments before lifting the covers and creeping over to the door. 

The knob feels normal, when you touch it. It even twists. But when you attempt to put any pressure forwards or backwards on it, even slightly, a soft golden light emanates from the crack between the door and the doorframe. You frown, and test it again. Same result.  _ Hm. _

You already knew you were a prisoner, of sorts, but...it’s still a bit unnerving. Especially when you have no way of locking the door from the inside, and you don’t know if the charm works both ways. Placing a chair beneath the doorknob doesn’t feel strong enough. The next nearest piece of furniture to the door—the nearest piece that looks movable, that is—is a chest of drawers. Dragging that in the way makes you feel a bit safer, but you still can’t quite stop the chill that flutters down your spine every time you hear what you think could be footsteps coming up or down the hall outside. 

That night, you sleep with the candles lit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings,
> 
> I'm sorry if this chapter feels a bit filler-y!! Now that we're on Asgard, it's time for a bit of exposition and plot-building as Y/N learns all about the intrigues of Asgardian palace life, and how they are similar—or entirely different—from the life she knew back home. And poor Loki's locked away :(
> 
> Still, I hope this chapter was enjoyable! Lmk your thoughts down below, and I'll see you next update!
> 
> xoxo,  
> DoeEyedDarling


	16. Chapter 16

You wake with the dawn. At least, you think it’s the dawn—until your eyes flutter open to an unfamiliar ceiling, your head resting on a pillow that is not your own, and you realize that the glow bathing the room isn’t sunlight, at all. It can’t be; there are no windows in this room, a detail you’d noted last night and immediately forgotten. The light is too bright to be candlelight, too, and all the candles must surely have melted by now.

You sit up and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, allowing yourself to drop down onto the plush bedside carpet, and you look at the wall nearest you. The textured stone of the walls appear to be threaded through with a soft seam of gold, a detail which you’d noted last night and immediately forgotten. Now those same fibres are alight with a delicate shimmer that is at once alluring and frightening. You refrain from pressing your palm flat against it, but you do draw closer, fluttering your fingers an inch or so above one particularly bright spot. It doesn’t emanate the heat you’d been expecting. Instead, the air seems to chill the closer you get. It’s cold enough that, were you to touch the wall directly, you half expect your fingers would freeze.

You look around for something you can use as a barrier, a way to touch the wall by proxy. The sleeve of your robe will have to do. You fold it over your hand, and take one more step towards the wall, leaning, leaning…

But just before you make contact, the glow fades. The chill is gone. You have to stifle a scream as the room is plunged back to darkness; you practically leap back into bed, though in your blind panic you end up face-planting into the mattress. Even in the dark, with your face shoved into a pillow, you squeeze your eyes shut, as though that were a viable protection against any kind of threat.

A few seconds pass, and no demons or warriors or shapeshifting aliens of any kind have appeared to kill—or rescue—you. You suppose that’s a good thing. You push up onto your hands and knees, then sit back into a kneeling position. With the walls de-illuminated, and the candles decidedly finished, the only hint of light left in the place comes from a corner opposite the bed. The door, you realize. 

As you make your way across the room, hands held up in front of you lest you should trip (or need to otherwise defend yourself), you can’t help but have a chuckle at your own expense. If only the tabloids knew that Lady (Y/N)—the young woman who spent the last four years having her life upended time and time again, once fought off a pair of bloodthirsty Chitauri, and at one point in time was set to be queen of the entire planet—was still nursing a childhood fear of the dark. Ricky Morgenstern and Ashley Marino would have a field day with that little tidbit, you’re certain. It’s been so long since you’ve thought about it. At the palace, since the end of the competition, you’ve rarely slept alone. And even during your unfortunate homecoming of the past two weeks, you were sleeping in familiar territory. But here, without Loki by your side…

No. You refuse to be bogged down by sentimentality. Not now, when you’re expecting to see your sleep paralysis demon pop up out of the corner of your eye at any minute. 

_ Expecting? Hoping, more like. At least a sleep paralysis demon would be something of a familiar face. _

The thought brings up another string of quiet laughter. Until you stumble directly into the chest of drawers you’d pushed in front of the entrance last night, at which point your sniggering quickly turns to a hiss of pain, and a decidedly un-lady-like string of curse words. You keep up the whispered cursing to yourself as you shove the chest of drawers to a spot that you hope is out of the way enough for you to open the door. If the door has even been unlocked, that is.

To your delight, when you try the knob this time, it turns without resistance, magical or otherwise.

Part of you wants to tread with caution. But the part of you that is thoroughly creeped out by the prospect of lying awake in your pitch-black room until someone comes to fetch you? That part has you moving rashly to push the door open. It takes a bit of shoulder work—everything in this palace really is as heavy as it looks. You suppose that’s what comes of building  _ everything _ out of real gold—but you succeed, and step out into the hallway.

The rush of daylight is a bit jarring, but not in an entirely unpleasant way; it wakes you up in a manner reminiscent of a cold winter breeze. Once your eyes adjust, you’re able to more properly take in your surroundings: the ivory and bronze. The tapestries. The vaulted ceilings, so much higher than the ones back home, and seemingly made of glass. In fact, there are windows everywhere—they bleed down from the ceiling, reaching the floor in between tapestries, flooding the palace with the soft light of the Asgardian sun. 

The hall isn’t empty. Down in either direction, you see pairs and small clusters of people, walking in different directions, or paused to chat. Nobody is close enough to pay you any mind; with the sheer vastness of the halls, it’s difficult for the groups to  _ avoid _ spreading out. It seems as though the entire palace—or this wing of it, at least—is completely antithetical to the cold claustrophobia (weird random glowing walls notwithstanding) of your room.

Speaking of your room, you hear a heavy thud behind you. 

You flinch, and turn to see the door has swung shut. Which is not too alarming on its own—you do take a moment to glance furtively at your surroundings, but nobody appears to have taken notice. What  _ does _ alarm you, though, is that the door refuses to let you back in. No matter which way you turn the knob. 

You’re fairly certain you’ve yet to spend a full forty-eight hours on Asgard, and already you’ve managed to get on the Allfather’s bad side, cry twice, be separated indefinitely from your fiancé,  _ and _ lock yourself out of your room. In a busy hallway. Wearing nothing but an oversized bathrobe, no less. 

_ Well. At least it can’t get any worse from here, right? _

“Who let her out?”

_ Annnnd I definitely spoke too soon. Lovely. _

“Newcomer.” The speaker is the shorter one of the pair of guards walking towards you.    
“You shouldn’t be out before you’re summoned.”

“Majesty’s orders,” the tall, carrot-headed one adds. You cross your arms over your chest to hide the way your hands itch to curl into fists, your muscles tensing automatically. 

You do not have a good track record with guards. 

You do note, however, that these two don’t appear to be leering, or particularly intimidating at all. If anything, they look to be your age, or even a bit younger. If it were in any other context, you might find this funny. It’s like being reprimanded by a slightly older, slightly better-dressed version of Carlie.

The ache that hits your chest at the thought of your sister is sudden and acute.  _ I miss you, Carlie.  _

_ I’m so, so sorry. _

“Hello? Didja hear what I said? Do you think she heard what I said, Rinca?” You realize then that you haven’t responded at all. Before you have a chance to save yourself, the shorter one elbows the taller guard in the side, a cruel laugh preceding her next words. “I guess it really is true what they say about mortals, eh?”

The last thing you need is to be asking questions of snarky palace guards who a) definitely appear to be on Odin’s side, and b) apparantly hold all mortals in contempt. But you can’t hel but feel a bit uneasy at the implication that Asgardians have stereotypes about humans. You didn’t think Asgardians really thought about mortals at all. You just assumed that Æsir & Co. would have more important things to do than to consider the numerous shortcomings of the human race. After all, before Loki, none of them had come to Midgard in quite a while, right?

_ Let’s reel in the mental tangents, (Y/N).  _ You’re not going to break any derogatory Asgard-Midgard stereotypes by standing here like a deer in headlights.

_ Deer. Masquerade ball. Home. _

Home _. _

_ No, (Y/N). Focus. _ You shake your head, and pretend you’re wearing something a bit more regal-looking than this (admittedly very good quality) robe as you respond. “I tried to go back in. The room refused.”

“The room...refused?” Shorty first scrunches her nose in confusion, then purses her lips, looking at you with knit brows. “And I suppose you expect us to believe you?’

You stare at her blankly. “You can check the doorknob. You can literally check the doorknob, it—”

“But then why’d you come out in the first place?” cuts in Carrot-Top (Rinca, the shorter one called him, but that’s too bad—he’s forever Carrot-Top in your mind now). 

You notice, with growing unease, that a small crowd has begun to form a bit further down the hall. A glance over your shoulder shows a similar group clumping together behind you, as well. They stand at a polite distance, of course, but it doesn’t take a genius to guess that they’re evesdropping—especially when a few of them look to be whispering to each other, when you hear  _ mortal _ and  _ Prince Loki _ and  _ with child _ being thrown around rather liberally. 

“I—” You’re a bit too distracted by the crowd. It makes you flustered, which makes you stutter, which you’re sure the guards will be only too keen to take as a sign of guilt. “I, um—”

“Rinca, Colleth. Leave the poor girl alone.” 

At the sound of that melodic, almost-familiar voice, the guards  _ and  _ the crowd turn their attention away from you in shockingly quick order. You follow the voice, too, and find yourself staring deep into a pair of amanranth eyes. 

Sigyn smiles. “She was coming to meet me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello darlings,
> 
> hope this chapter finds you well! it's nearly 2 in the morning where i am and i am running on a string of poor night's sleep(s), so i'm going to post this and then immediately crash, but i may expand this author's note + do a quick spelling/grammar check in the morning. i will answer comments from last chapter as soon as i can.
> 
> as the sun rises later, and the days grow (marginally) shorter once again, i hope you all continue to stay safe and healthy, especially with the clusterfuck that is back-to-school planning at this moment in time. 
> 
> hmu with your thoughts/prayers/questions/etc below, and i look forward to seeing you all next chapter!! much love
> 
> xoxo,  
> a very sleepy/loopy doeeyeddarling


	17. Chapter 17

Sigyn doesn’t remember exactly how old she was when she first met the trickster prince of Asgard. Only that they had both been very young, and they had both been very foolish, and they had both liked each other immensely from the start.

She hadn’t wanted to like him. In fact, she had quite desperately wanted the opposite. There were talks of an arrangement, back then; an engagement. Alfheim and Asgard had settled into an age of tentative peace with each other, as evidenced by her family’s permanent welcome to the Golden Realm, and what better way to seal the treaty than with a permanent union?

Just talks, of course. Nothing concrete, especially not while the children were—well, children. But Sigyn had always been a stubborn child, and in the days leading up to her family’s move, she had made up her mind that she would resist the marriage at all costs. She didn’t just dislike Loki of Asgard; she hated him. Loathed him, even. Nevermind the fact that she’d never laid eyes on him. She disliked what he represented: a future where she was forever disallowed from once more calling Alfheim her home, a future where she was seen as nothing more than a tool to broker relations between two realms. A political pawn.

Sigyn hated politics.

But it was hard to hate the black haired little boy who came to greet her at the palace gates. 

Thor had been boisterous and loudmouthed, asking her questions and talking over the answers, picking up one of her suitcases before she could protest—not unfriendly, but overwhelming all the same to a homesick young girl. But Loki was quiet. Loki had been clutching at his mother’s skirts while his older brother fussed about, unmoving, just watching, until Frigga had bent down and whispered something in his ear and given him a gentle nudge in Sigyn’s direction.

He’d walked over. He held out a hand. And before she could ask what he wanted, or turn her nose up at him, or tell him very bluntly that she disliked him, the air above his hand glowed, and there appeared a little stalk, covered in tiny pink flowers.

He took another step forward, holding it carefully on the flat of his palm. As though he was afraid of crushing it.

“For you,” he said. 

His pale, chubby cheeks held a slight flush. Sigyn forgot all of the biting remarks she’d been cataloging and saving up over the past week; she took the flower. As soon as she accepted it, Loki backed away, giving her a small, jerking nod of a bow, and retreated to the safety of Frigga’s skirts once more. 

Sigyn felt a warmth in her chest—a glow. It was not uncommon for light elves to emit some type of luminescence when they were experiencing particularly strong emotions, but this wasn’t that. This was an unfamiliar feeling, one she couldn’t quite put a name to. All she could parse out was that it was a positive feeling, a good feeling. And it was a good feeling that was directed towards the little boy with the green eyes and the coal-black curls and the seiðr in his fingertips.

That was a very long time ago.

* * *

Now, Sigyn takes your hand firmly, but not unkindly, as the two guards bend at the waist. You notice most people in the vicinity do some type of similar bow or curtsy.  _ Should I do that?  _ You recall Loki mentioning something about Sigyn being a diplomat to Asgard from Andheim? No, Alfheim. Alfheim, that was it. Perhaps you should bow. It’s a bit late now, though; it would be silly of you to dip down just as everyone else has returned to full height.

“Apologies, Ambassador,” says the shorter guard. Colleth, that’s her name. You make note of the title— _ambassador._ If you’re going to have any kind of pleasant time living here, you’re going to need to learn the culture, and quickly. “We just didn’t—”  
“Understood. You are dismissed.” She raises a brow at the group behind the guards, and the onlookers scatter. She turns to the door behind you, and passes her free hand over the door to your room. The knob glows gold, and she pushes the door open, tugging you in after her. The candles are relit before the door slams behind you, and before you can thank her, you find yourself caught once more in her gaze.

“Your intended,” she begins. “You are very dear to him.”

There is something satisfying about hearing her say  _ your intended. _ It soothes the possessive, green-eyed beast that threatens to claw through your chest every time you think about the way she looked at him in the cell. The confirmation, the acknowledgement from her own mouth:  _ he is yours.  _ No matter what history may lie between them, Loki is yours.

At the same time, though, it’s impossible not to notice how carefully she’s choosing her words.  _ Intended. _ And  _ dear to him _ —not  _ he loves you. _ You’re still too exhausted from the upheaval of your life, too unfamiliar with the customs of this realm, too unfamiliar with  _ her _ , to gauge her sincerity. Because while it’s possible that Sigyn is just a very, very formal person, and her vocabulary is merely an expression of that, it is also possible that she is a master of passive aggression and veiled contempt. 

But she did rescue you (kind of) from public humiliation. And she is now looking through your closet, pulling out different dresses—dresses that you’re ninety percent certain weren’t there last night—and holding them up and shaking her head.

“Thank you,” you offer. It feels so insignificant. So many miles away from everything you want to say—everything you want to  _ ask _ . But they are the only words you can say. “I—”

“Come. Sit.” She pats a spot on the bed—which is freshly made, you notice with no small amount of discomfort—that isn’t covered with clothing, and you slowly make your way over, sitting there and looking up at her. A few dresses later, she finally nods in approval—at the dress, not at you— and lays it across the pillows with care. You rise to help her hang up the others; she stops you with little more than a raised hand. “Not in your condition.”

“I’m pregnant, not invalid,” you mutter. 

She doesn’t appear to hear you. 

When all the dresses are put away, she turns and comes to sit next to you. You catch a glimpse of the closet before the door shuts. Empty. Completely empty. You don’t know if that’s because she is magic or because the palace is magic, and either way you are a bit scared and a bit dizzy and more than a bit overwhelmed. 

“You are very dear to him,” she repeats. You look at her. Try to ground yourself by clinging to her words, by taking in every feature of her smooth skin and ornamented hair and the ivory silk she wears. “And so you must take care of yourself. Do you understand? That means no wandering around unaccompanied.”

“It was dark,” you say. The words feel lame even before they leave your mouth. “And there was no window—”

She snaps, and the room is flooded with natural light. You look over with a start at the wrought-iron framing and thick glass panes that newly adorn the far wall.  _ Oh. She definitely has magic, then. Very cool, very cool. _

“T-thank you.”

“I will help keep you safe. But I cannot do it alone.”

It’s hard not to squirm under the intensity of her gaze. “That’s sweet, but you really don’t need to—”

“When you die,” she says bluntly, “he will go mad with grief.” For the first time, her eyes leave yours. Fixed in the center of her hands, her palms cupped together. “You cannot let that happen.”

“I…” How do you respond to that? You’re used to worrying about your own mortality. But you’re not used to having it pointed out by other people. “I won’t.”

“Good.” She nods, then stands up. Her face remains mostly impassive. “I’ll leave you to get dressed. The Allmother will come to fetch you soon for noonmeal.”

“It’s midday already?”

“You slept a while.” You don’t respond. You don’t know how to respond to any of this, any of this antagonistic friendliness she’s offering. At the doorframe, she pauses. Turns her head to glance back at you. And she says, “I know.”

What she knows, what she thinks, she doesn’t explain—only leaves the door to fall shut behind her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello darlings,
> 
> speedy update! as the summer comes to an end, and i face the prospect of (thankfully) going back to some type of job or internship, i'm not sure how my posting schedule will be affected; however, I'll still try to do a chapter a week if I can.
> 
> love you all, and thank you as always for reading!
> 
> xoxo,  
> DoeEyedDarling


	18. Chapter 18

Loki doesn’t remember exactly when it was he fell for the headstrong young woman from Midgard, but he suspects it was sometime between the day she left the palace and the day she told him he had to marry for love.

He still thinks about that, sometimes. Often, actually. How he tried—tried to give up the crown, give up the powerlust, give up everything but the promise of a life with her. Tried to marry for love. And look at where it’s led him. To a pretty padded cell in the ground of the realm he had tried so desperately to escape.

He doesn’t regret it. Had he told his younger self this would happen, that’s the detail that would likely have shocked him the most—the lack of regret. The fact that he would do it all again, give up his life, his freedom, his throne, for a mortal! An Earthborn mortal, at that! Young Loki would have scoffed at the thought. He didn’t know back then, didn’t know what it would feel like to look into the soft of her eyes, feel the warmth of her hand in his, and the beat of her pulse, and the sound of her voice—

He misses all of those things (and more) very, very much. He misses them even more now that there is a very real possibility he would never see her again.

(For the Jotunn,  _ never _ is a very long time).

* * *

When Frigga comes to fetch you herself for, uh, noonmeal, you’re relieved to find Sigyn didn’t lead you astray—your dress seems in line enough with the little snippets of Asgardian fashion you’ve seen thus far. Yards and yards of gauzy grey-blue fabric gathered into an empire waist, with an attachment of something between a shawl and a cape around your shoulders. The silhouette is different from what you were accustomed back home, but the level of detail is the same.

“I see you discovered the workings of the wardrobe on your own,” she says with a smile. You don’t correct her. 

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting very long. I must have been asleep a while.”

“Not at all. You needed the rest.”

You don’t mention your earlier run-in with Sigyn (and she, curiously enough, doesn’t mention the appearance of the new window). You don’t know enough about any Asgard-specific courtly intrigue to feel comfortable yet asking anyone about...well, anything.

_ When you die, _ she had said,  _ he will go mad with grief. _

Not if. When.

“Are you fond of botany?”

“Hm?” Her questions shakes you from your train of thought as the two of you walk down another gold-and-glass hallway. “Sorry, what?”

“You’ll be taking noonmeal in the garden today with two of my ladies-in-waiting.” One of her hands alights on your shoulder as she guides you towards an open door, through which shines even more sunlight. “I was merely curious if you are interested in flowers. Or what your interests are in general, really.”

“I…”

You stop.

Not walking, of course, but speaking. Because...what  _ are _ your interests?

You’ve spent most of the past half decade dabbling in a bit of everything, and the past year in particular focused on event planning. But the more you think about it, the more you realize how little time you’ve been spending on any kind of leisure activities. Sure, you would journal, you would listen to music, you would indulge in a book or two...but only occasionally. Once in a blue moon, if you were lucky. When you take into consideration all of the time spent planning the minutiae of each different component of the wedding, in addition to all of the interviews and social events you were obliged to attend in the year following your engagement, your moments of rest truly were far and few between.

Do you...do you really have  _ no _ hobbies?

“Teaching,” you blurt out. It’s the first thing that comes to mind, mainly because you’re thinking about home and Lady Amara and  _ her _ job, but you’re really not sure why you said anything because your relationship with Lady Amara’s students was tangential at most… Still, it would be bizarre to back out now. So, with a nod, you decide to commit to the lie—after all, how much more of a hole could you possibly dig yourself into at this point? “Yes. Teaching. Children and, um, teenagers mostly? Etiquette and that sort of thing…”  _ Stop talking! You’re making things worse! _

To your relief, though, she doesn’t push for further details after you trail off. “That sounds wonderful,” she says kindly (perhaps that’s a bit redundant, seeing as how she’s never said anything  _ un _ kindly). “You’ll take to motherhood quite well, if teaching is something you enjoy.”

You hope she doesn’t interpret your silence as intentional rudeness. It’s just...the word  _ motherhood _ . It’s thrown you for a loop. You have a feeling it’ll continue to throw you for a loop for a very, very long time.

But you have no time to ponder that, now, because you’re walking into the garden and there are  _ people _ to meet—“Gna, Fulla, this is our newcomer”—and there are smiles to wear, and pleasantries to exchange, and perhaps it’s not so different here from your life back home, after all.

Frigga’s ladies-in-waiting are skilled as she is in making you feel comfortable, in diverting your attention with tea and biscuit-like-things on little plates. So skilled, in fact, that you make it quite far into the conversation before you realize Frigga herself has departed. Royal duties, no doubt; you can sympathize, if only partly.

You don’t mention her absence. Instead, you direct your attention back to your present company. Fulla is asking you a question.

“You look to be around...humans live for what, a thousand years? Surely you can’t be more than a few centuries.”

“Twenty years, actually,” you say pleasantly. You have to stifle a laugh at their reactions. They look like a duo out of a cartoon, almost, these two. Not just their animated expressions, but the contrast between them; Fulla is a willowy, statuesque woman, while Gna is short and stout in a way that seems to beg for a pair of apple-red cheeks to match. “We live about eighty, ninety years. Some particularly lucky ones make it to a full century.” The two of them look even more scandalized. 

“Midgardian years? Twenty Midgardian years?” Gna repeats, incredulous. You nod. “My apologies if I sound...disrespectful. But Norns, _twenty_ _years…_ ”

Fulla cuts in. “You must understand, none of us have seen a mortal in the flesh for quite some time.”

“So I’ve heard.” You flash her a playful smile, hoping a sufficient display of charm will distract from the nervous fidgeting of your fingers, twisting your ring around and around in a way that has become as familiar as breathing. “Am I what you’d expected?”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Dropping into the throne room by way of the Tesseract, daring to address the Allfather directly without permission, and proclaiming yourself to be not only the prodigal prince’s betrothed, but the mother of his unborn child?” She takes another sip of her tea and shakes her head, as though reliving the memory. “I’m not certain ‘expected’ is the word I would use.”

“You have kicked up quite the ruckus.”

“Particularly now that word has begun to spread.”

“Spread?” You’ve been in Asgard for less than forty-eight hours. “About me?”

Gna nods. “Certainly. You would be surprised how quickly gossip travels in this realm.”

“No, of course. I was just under the impression that Od- the  _ Allfather _ , I thought he would want to keep this whole…situation as quiet as possible.” You give up playing with your ring in favor of clasping your hands together (though you can’t keep from tapping your fingers against your wrist). 

Fulla chuckles. “Odin can no more stop the rumor mills than halt the flow of time itself.”

“In fact, I’d be less surprised if he managed to pull off the latter.”

“Indeed. And in this case, I think it may work in his favor.” She purses her lips, as though debating whether she should say what it is she says next. “And yours, for that matter.”

You lean forward, your interest piqued. “How so?”

“For his part, the whispers should help to obfuscate the truth. Half the stories I’ve heard speak of the young prince kidnapping a girl from Midgard and bringing her here as a hostage, a bargaining chip for his freedom.” A small, bemused smile rises to her lips. “Others paint you as having, er, seduced him to your will using profane human magics. Already it is becoming difficult to discern the truth from the fiction.”

“Lucky us,” Gna interrupts, giving you a painfully gentle smile, “that we get to learn the details first hand.”

Fulla covers your hand with hers. “Quite.”

“Right.” You return their kind looks, of course. But you cannot pretend there’s nothing left on your mind. “How do the rumors help me?”

The two exchange a heavy look. Fulla is the first to break it, putting her cup down with a sigh. “The Allfather is a powerful man,” she begins, choosing her words carefully, “and Asgard is vast, and well populated. With so many citizens, it can be easy to...well. Easy to lose track of people. Particularly if they are not well known.”

_ Oh. _

“There are some charms that can be used for search parties,” Gna adds. “But those are blood tracking spells. They require the presence of a living relative to work.”

“Of which you—with the sole exception of your unborn child—have none.” In an instant, Fulla’s hand is back on yours. This time, though, she squeezes it,  _ hard. _ Not so tightly that the pain is unbearable, but with an intensity that forces you to look up into her stern gold eyes. “It would be in your best interest for as many people to know of your existence as possible. Do you follow me?”

You nod.

“Good.” She releases your hand to reclaim her teacup and saucer, smiling lightly, as though the past minute didn’t happen. She stirs another small spoonful of sugar into her cup. “Now, you simply  _ must _ tell us about Midgardian cuisine. Is it really as dull and lifeless as the histories say?”

After a few false starts, you stumble into a defense of all the different foods you loved back home, but your mind couldn’t be farther away. 

You’d never expected to feel fully safe on Asgard. You are the sole human in a realm full of light elves and old-world deities; the risk was implied. You knew that.

But it’s only now beginning to sink in how much  _ real _ danger you might be in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you’re well darlings! as IRL, non-fic work picks up i might update a bit less frequently; thank you for sticking with this story, and i will do my best to keep updating as regularly as i can.
> 
> love you all!
> 
> xoxo,  
> DoeEyedDarling


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> reader is making friends, making plans....and learning more about how precarious her situation really is

The next week passes in a blur of small talk and stress dreams. By the fourth or fifth day, Frigga has ceased coming to fetch you herself, electing instead to entrust you directly to Gna and Fulla. They bring you to the gardens for breakfast and then back to your room, and then to the gardens for noonmeal and then back to your room, and then rather than returning to the gardens for dinner they simply bring a plate to your room, so effectively you are leaving your room twice a day for a cumulative two, perhaps three hours...and you’re not protesting any of it.

_ You’re reckless, _ Loki said. 

_ No wandering around unaccompanied, _ Sigyn had insisted. 

And most chilling of all, Fulla’s thinly veiled warning of how very, very  _ easily _ you could be made to disappear.

So you sit in your room for hours each day, each sleepless night, bored out of your mind. Worse than the boredom, of course, is the dreams. The helplessness. It becomes something of a game, after a while, listing ways Odin might try to have you taken out.

_ Poison in my soup.  _

It’s a morbid pastime, yes, but it seems the only way you can keep yourself from being  _ entirely _ paralyzed with fear is to laugh at the threat. 

_ An assassin for hire. _

By the end of the second week, you’ve done it so many times that you can rattle off twenty or so different methods of death at the drop of a hat. Not that anyone’s asking.

_ Pushing me off a turret. _

The wall behind your bed still glows every so often. At least once a day the frosty golden energy illuminates the room, casting strange shadows on the walls. You’ve yet to figure out what it means.

_ A sniper. Do they have guns here? An arrow sniper, then. Maybe. Are arrow snipers a thing?  _

Loki would know. About the gold wall, not the arrow snipers.

You’ve given up on crying yourself to sleep, but not a night goes by that you don’t smooth your cheek against the pillow and wish that it was his chest instead. Or tug the blankets more tightly around you and pretend it’s his embrace.

_ Throw me in the palace moat. Or that cute little pond by the garden. _

You take some small, small piece of comfort in knowing he is alive. Even if you will never see him. Even if the bonds between you are severed for good. Even if the last conversation you ever had was about two steps from a full-fledged fight. 

You hope it brings him peace, too, knowing you are safe.

_ Set fire to my room and lock me inside. _

Of course, that’s the problem: you aren’t safe. Not anywhere. Odin has just as much power over you inside this room as he does in the rest of the palace, and it’s futile to pretend otherwise. All the small talk and reassuring glances in the world from Gna and Fulla can’t make you forget that fact.

_ Wait for me to die. _

Also a very real possibility. Because hey, what’s one mortal lifetime? Why go through the trouble of murdering you when time will take care of that soon enough?

_ But… _ you sit up.  _ Am I really going to just lie down and let that happen? _

You’re not going to be rash. You’re not going to do something like run away. Who knows what they would do to you, if they caught you? Who knows what they would do to Loki?

_ Or at least _ , you think, slipping out of bed and pulling a cloak over your shoulders,  _ I’m not going to run away today. _

_ But that doesn’t mean I can’t start to plan. _

* * *

The first step, you decide, is to get a better sense of the palace layout. However, that’s going to be a bit of a challenge, considering you’re still  _ locked into your room _ .

You yank on the knob. You consider trying to pick the lock…but there’s no lock to pick, so that’s a bust. The hinges are on the opposite side, so taking those out won’t work. You kick the door, pound on it with your fists; nothing. Nothing, nothing, and more nothing.

“Come  _ on! _ ” You go back and sit on the bed, panting. Obviously you don’t think you’re strong enough to knock the door down, but what with the lack of a lock and the weird on-again-off-again glowing of the walls, you know there must be magic in this room. If you could just figure it out…

Speaking of the glowing, as you flop onto your back, you notice it’s returned.

“Hey,” you say dryly. 

It pulses in response. You sit straight up and scramble to the end of the bed.

“Hello?”

Nothing this time; it just beats on, steadily as before. But you know what you saw. You crawl back towards it, slowly, tentatively. 

“Is there somebody there?”

Nothing.

“Pulse once if you can hear me.”

One pulse. Your own heart speeds up. 

“Can you...see me?” The idea makes your skin crawl. “One pulse for yes, two for no.”

Two pulses. You sigh, relieved. This whole experience has been enough of an invasion of your privacy  _ without _ adding magical hidden cameras in the one place you have to yourself.

“Do I know you?”

Nothing. Whether that’s an admission or a denial, you don’t know.

“Did Odin assign you to watch me?”

Two pulses. Hm. Maybe it’s true; maybe it’s a lie. But you don’t have very many other allies in this place, and it turns out you just might be desperate enough to rely on a pulsing wall of light for help, because you find yourself blurting out:

“Do you know how I can get out of here?” You hold your breath as you wait for a response.

One pulse.

_ Yes. _

“Can you show me?” A long, long minute passes without a response, before you add, “Please?”

The light fades entirely.  _ Shit _ . But not ten seconds later, you hear a creaking noise behind you. Sure enough, when you turn to look, the door has swung open, revealing the dark, empty hallway beyond. 

You slide off the bed, and glance back at the wall. Still dark. This might be a trap. A test. Or is this a bargain? 

_ Will the magic, glowing wall want something in return for unlocking my door?  _ You squeeze your eyes shut.  _ I sound ridiculous _ .

Ridiculous. Bold.

_ Reckless. _

You can’t help it. You can’t sit here one moment longer. You grab a bit of paper and charcoal off the nightstand. You pull the cloak more tightly around your shoulders.

You tiptoe out the door

* * *

As it turns out, making a map of the palace in the dark is harder than you’d think.

You aren’t doing too badly, all things considered. At the very least, you think the system of lines you’ve scrawled across the paper is clear enough that you’ll be able to make it back to your rooms without being lost. But having seen the palace from the outside, you know it’s incredibly, impossibly larger than what you’ve covered already—and you’ve covered a decent amount of ground. You must have been wandering around for at least an hour or two, at this point.

You reach the end of the second longest hallway. If your map is correct, you could draw a near perfect diagonal from your room to here. Perhaps you should go back. Already the sky is beginning to pale, and the last thing you need is to get caught—

“Going somewhere?”

Your hand curls around the paper—slowly, so as to avoid drawing attention to the motion—as you turn to face the speaker. Both of them.  _ So the guards have a night shift, _ you mentally note.  _ Good to know.  _ “Hi! Hello.”

The taller of the two— _ Colleth _ , you remember,  _ and the other is Rinca _ —crosses her arms. “Unusual to see you, out and about on your lonesome.”

“Just stretching my legs.”

They look at the ceiling, and the hallway, empty and dark save for the moon overhead, then at each other, and then at you. “At this hour?” Rinca asks.

You offer up a sheepish smile. “Always have been a bit of an insomniac.”

“You’ve wandered quite far. This isn’t anywhere near your quarters.”

“Well, I…” You wring your hands, then hug your waist, searching for a suitable response. “I was just...I mean, I just thought that…”

“Alright, alright.” Rinca shakes his head. “I see what’s goin’ on here.”

“You do?”

They approach you, Rinca reaching out a hand. It closes over yours—the hand with the map—and you’re about to make a run for it when:

“You were looking for the kitchens, eh?” He gives your hand a pat, and pulls away. “My cousin was with child last year. Had the most terrible cravings, at all hours of the day, all hours of the night. Nasty stuff, too—codroil with fried linnet, frannel dipped in cream—if you ask me, that’s what had her bent over the chamber pot all day, not any morning sickness—”

“Rinca!” his partner hisses. 

“Ah—sorry.” He gives you an apologetic little nod. “Don’t mean to be indelicate. But anyway, there’s no shame in it. No need to go skulking about in secret. Better to ask someone for help than risk getting lost.”

“Ay. You’re close, though.” Colleth nods up the hall to your right. “We can walk you the rest of the way.”

You go along with it, if only to avoid being caught. Though, to be honest, a midnight—dawn—snack doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.  _ Poison _ , the paranoid part of your brain whispers; but they lead you to a pantry and give you free rein. Surely the food will be safe if you’re picking it out yourself? 

It brings you no comfort to hear them muttering to each other as you look over the food. 

You fill a small basket with an assortment of baked goods quick as you can, and, sure enough, when you approach them, they fall silent. 

Now it’s your turn to ask, “What?”

Rinca rubs the back of his neck, looking guilty. “Ah, we were just…”  
“What?” you repeat. You cock your head. You’re somewhat relieved by the fact that they look less like they were plotting ways to assassinate you, and more like you caught them engaged in some petty gossip. “I don’t offend easily, you know.” 

“I don’t know how much you’ve heard about recent news since you’ve gotten here.”

“I’ve been in my room ninety percent of the time. I haven’t heard much.”

“Well…” He hesitates. “It’s nothing official. But there’s been some murmurings—”

“—more than murmurings—”

“Whispers, then, there have been whispers of some difficulty with the line of succession.” He and Colleth exchange a look, and he hurriedly says, “It’s late, innit? We should get you back to your room, if you’re all finished.” They take off down the hall, leaving you to have to briefly jog to catch up to them.

“Difficulty?”

“Y’see, the crown prince is gone back to Midgard. For good, they’re saying. And the young prince…” He sends you a sideways glance. “‘Pologies, miss.”

Ah. So that’s why they were reluctant to tell you. You bite your lip, and look away. “No, I...I understand. The Allfather can’t exactly name a convicted criminal heir to the throne.”

“Right. He’s sentenced down there for life, and who’s going to pardon him? The Allfather? He doesn’t want to. The Allmother can’t go against his wishes; they are supposed to display a united front to the realm. It would take the support of an entire other realm to get that poor bastard back above ground.”

“An entire other realm? Like…” You hesitate. “Like Jotunheim?”

“What’s left of it. They’re not too fond of him, either.”

Of course, how could you forget: before he met you, Loki spent a solid millennium or two racking up enemies. And smitten and strong-willed as you may be, one lovestruck Midgardian woman doesn’t quite balance out entire realms and races of people who would be more than happy to see your fiancé locked up for good.

“You don’t think he’ll ever pardon him?” Colleth asks.

Rinca shakes his head. “Not in a million years. You didn’t hear this from me, miss, but the Allfather isn’t one to admit he’s been wrong.”

“So…what will he do?”

Colleth shrugs. “Yer guess is as good as ours.”

“Though…” Rinca lifts an eyebrow. Colleth gives him a smack to the shoulder, and he clears his throat, shaking his head. “Ahem. Sorry. Nevermind.”

“What?”

He gives you a tight smile. “Nothing, really.”

“Ah, Rinc, you big lump, you’ve already let the cat out of the bag,” Colleth snaps, pressing two fingers to her temple as though to ward off a headache. “Not much you can do now to shove it back in.”

Rinca sighs. “Don’t mind my saying this, miss, but...well, like I said, the eldest son’s off gallivanting across the galaxy, right?”

“And the younger one is, you know.”

“Yes, and?”

“Well, it seems to me the closest thing the Allfather has to a proper heir is that baby.”

“What?” Instinct brings your hand to your stomach, and you freeze in your tracks, shaking your head. “No. No, Loki and I were never married.”

“I said closest thing, not an exact match.”

“Loki is—was—he’s adopted,  _ and _ been sentenced to jail for life.”

“The Allfather still seems to have a soft spot for him—he would have just killed him otherwise, not given him a proper fancy cell and all. So ‘he still thinks of him as a son, right? And he was never legally de...er, de-legitimized, either.”

Your stomach churns. You reach out to the side, clutching at something, anything for balance; one of the guards (you’re too dizzy to see which) helps you over to the nearest wall, lets you slide down to a sitting position, the elegant fabric of your gown collecting dust as you try to collect your thoughts. 

“You’re telling me—”

Colleth nods. “You may very well be carrying the crown prince or princess of Asgard.”

It makes no sense at all. And yet, as you rack through your mental files—through months and months worth of lessons on Asgardian hierarchy and lines of ascension drilled into you by Lady Amara (gods, what you wouldn’t give to have her here with you now!)—it’s the only logical option.

“But...what does that make me?”

There is a long, long pause before either of them speak.

“That makes you a threat, miss.” You look up to see Rinca kneeling besides you, his brows knit in a mirror image of Colleth’s worried expression behind. “A very big threat, indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember me? :)
> 
> hope you all are well! sorry for the LONG hiatus, i hope this slightly longer chapter makes up for it. 
> 
> drop a comment with your thoughts, predictions, questions, etc! love you all and i will see you next update
> 
> xoxo,  
> DoeEyedDarling

**Author's Note:**

> Want more Loki goodness? Check out my Tumblr [here](https://doeeyeddarlingxo.tumblr.com/)
> 
> For some visuals (and hints at future chapters), check out the Pinterest board I made for this story [here](https://pin.it/1N3Rc9w)
> 
> If you're a Wattpad guy/gal/pal, you can find this same story [there](https://my.w.tt/4psE3FmHk8)
> 
> And if you want to @ me on Twitter, you can do so here [here](https://twitter.com/doeeyedarlingxo)
> 
> happy reading :)


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